Laura Jensen
	Eggs           - 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. Catechism             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.