No Matter How Hard

A stack of plates in a field
waits to set a table, wonders
where did the cupboard go,
as if the creation of plates
is the meadow’s task, as if
a hay-high expanse is the breakfront
to hold porcelain. Not a teeter
or chip. Just a tidy cylinder of dishes,
pinked with flowers at the rim.
The twister lifts a home’s petticoats,
holds its skirts
high over the pasture
while domestic utensils slip out
from under. Flustering for miles
in the storm’s eye, the house
settles down on torn roots –
a pile of planks, ready with memory
of how to become a wall.

from Calyx, A Journal of Art and Literature by Women,, Summer 2011