Laura Jensen

          - Fort Christina was at the Swedish-Finnish colony in Delaware
When I walk past
Recycling bins with enormous
Liquor bottles
I assume always
It can be
The bottles real owners
Used a tactic
Like nesting birds
Carried the bottles
Houses and houses
From where they live themselves.
On the road near Fort Christina
In Delaware
A large broken eggshell
From Canada Geese there.

          In the imagination

Parboiled, those potatoes in the crockery bowl
Sober and cold.  Tufted upholstered
Wing chairs past the door frame
Lagoon and yellow green tree past the window
An act of choice, an act of faith –
Cut flowers, some early narcissus.
When many years passed the severance
Still clung, scented the whole moment
And illuminated the fact of the brother –
Whose essence was to permeate that niche
That vacuum left as the passenger ship
As the wagon of the neighbor came for the emigrant
The brother, beautiful at the last as
The corner – a used rag folded back
Of the kitchen stove for the cat, but never
To be perceived again, that rag once was part
Of mother’s coat.  The arms were worn threadbare,
But of a brocaded pattern of gray dark blue.
The cat.  But the rag folded there, dark blue.
And the brother who held on to his
Catechism, studied while we waited
And then on the wagon seat and it was
Our whole house, our whole town and
The large cathedral gone in the dark morning.