Each chip small as my thumbnail.
In my father’s house, twin weights strung on the chain for the German cuckoo.
Now I’m seven, glittering the rough bird in my palm: another December.
Every hour, the pulley rose in my sleep.
I dreamt of wooden teeth.
In the fairy tale on the tinder box, the soldier climbed through the knothole.
Whose hearth did he miss?
I write my name on a page of breath.
The kingdom splinters light. What evidence. What wish.
Karen Rigby is the author of Chinoiserie (Ahsahta Press). Her poems have been published in The Spectacle, Australian Book Review, The London Magazine, Foundry, Bennington Review and other journals. She lives in Arizona.