houseguest
TRANSCRIPT
University of Northern Iowa
HouseguestAuthor(s): Damon McLaughlinSource: The North American Review, Vol. 289, No. 1 (Jan. - Feb., 2004), p. 24Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25127088 .
Accessed: 12/06/2014 16:06
Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp
.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].
.
University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The NorthAmerican Review.
http://www.jstor.org
This content downloaded from 185.44.78.76 on Thu, 12 Jun 2014 16:06:23 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
N A R
DAMON MCLAUGHLIN
Houseguest
Something like love came
between us. Its black claws gripped butter in the butter dish on the kitchen table, slowly sinking through. I looked from it to her, and she
was just setting down her coffee behind the front page.
Through the sliding glass door, sunlight barely lit the trees.
She ruffled the paper. Have you seen this? I didn't respond. Nothing happened. She took a knife
and sliced one edge of the butter
and the bird hobbled one tablespoon left
with a squawk. I gasped, held my breath
with my fork in one hand in fear of what would happen next.
Quietly, the crow pecked at its wing feathers.
I watched its foot dig deeper into the butter. Still watching, I ate and in the silence scraped my teeth on the fork.
She let go of the paper. Do you have to do that?
I wanted to say something, but by then she still hadn't acknowledged the bird.
So we sat there, in that moment when the sun can't decide
if it's morning or not, staring at each other.
VALERIE YVETTE NANCE
In Relief
You curl there,
your back to me, and in the ridges of your spine I can read the message,
your story of territories
that have never been touched.
I want to run my fingers over those bones.
I want them to tell me something of things supported, defended. And I want you to feel, in my fingers, what this landscape of knuckles and skin
would like to know of you.
How I have followed maps,
only to meet the enigma of your humor.
How laughter is a border, and so can a body be, when curled like yours.
But the spine pushes itself in dashes and dots
against your skin,
and this I want to believe?
that one day these bones of yours will break free,
your topography wracked,
revealed,
my maps useless.
24 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January-February 2004
This content downloaded from 185.44.78.76 on Thu, 12 Jun 2014 16:06:23 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions