Linda McKenna

Genesis

This was a house of piano keys.
The clocks kept fairy tale time,
dinner was a guess, no one wore
pockets. I wove a nest of straw,
placed inside it a brother’s curl
(which one?), buttons from a midden,
scraps of paper where I wrote
my name in ash, charcoal, blood.

My new husband said leave it,
it’s worthless. Why buttons,
here’s beads, that’s not your name
anymore; a house of straw will
always blow down. But I hoarded
the treasure; stored it in a crevice
I carved into a Bible, hid it
in the attic against judgement day.

Counting House

When you deal in copper your
fingers smell of blood, the smell
of poverty. A stack of copper
never makes silver. Even when
you add the unpicked stitches
of an unnecessary lace collar,
the columns let in tears and topple.

The master of the counting house
can make the figures come out,
balance we call this. He hunts
all morning for an odd shilling,
dogged we call this, a small dog
waiting by a rat hole with the
patience a cat would never display,

and there it is, the stray shilling,
disfigured by a careless clerk.
He washes his inky hands, watches
the water swirling purple, indigo,
clear; goes off to lunch, in his
pocket, sixpence for the serving girl
in her cheap collar and stained cuffs.