I like how the candle just quits
when the wax and the wick are through.
How the smoke slips out the door;
how the laundry loves a wind.

I am an absent driver, scanning the sky for a hawk
and the woods for a deer. None to be seen.
Instead the larch, flaming against the dark;
sun-beam through a keyhole, sharp on the floor.

How long did you say we’ve lived here?
You thought you heard your voice;
I know I heard my name.
Something disturbs the dresses on the line.

Friends, the ghosts persist. Between us
and the world they build a soft promenade,
where hide and seek becomes Save yourself.
Where bewilderment is the easiest dilemma.


Jennifer Moore was born and raised in Seattle. She is the author of The Veronica Maneuver (Akron, 2015), and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Crazyhorse, DIAGRAM, Best New Poets, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. An assistant professor of creative writing at Ohio Northern University, she lives in Bowling Green, Ohio.