Issue 10

Winter 2014


Sand Painting

I’ve locked the door against dust,
but it blows underneath and arranges itself
into the prophesy of a Navajo painting,
the bezeled glass refracting caution
on my newly stenciled slate.

I will sweep this divination into the night,
offer it, like heated herbs, to the bobcat who leaves
me feathers in return. An appeasement to the pall
of my mudroom. I am sorry for that bird, her wasted twigs
a dry gift to my housekeeping. So I tell her

that the floor in my father's room
is so polished that he can't walk
without risk. He is offered slippers
to test his luck and a wheelchair
when it forfeits.


Sara Clancy