Wind Chime Lessons
A pie
burns in the oven-
the pumpkin mud
crisps into black
as smoke sours
the cinnamoned kitchen.
The scent slips into the living room
and worms through Opal's nose hairs,
defibrillating her into consciousness
from the island of images
conjured from an age-soaked
library book.
She curses quietly
with a coffeed tongue
and churns her legs
towards the oven,
scuttling beyond
A calico rubbing his salt tongue
against a refrigerator
adorned in souvenir magnets
and family photographs.
Her hands lift the pie delicately
from the oven
She lays the smoldering body outside
near the mouth of an anthill
with the precision of a pall-bearer
lowering a casket.
The funeral march blares from
the thrust of drunken wind chimes,
and she finds solace
in the fact that God could learn to play his instrument
a little bit better.
