Think of oak trees, spaces cool
under the leaves.  Think of dwarf stars,
minnows, forest ferns.

When the rain stops you will go out
in the yard where violets grow.
Carry yourself now to a room with no windows.
These are your instructions.  You must wait
in the dark.  You were not prepared before;
what could they tell you? 

You are a red carnation with no stem,
a pitted peach, a pool with no plug.

Don’t be afraid to open the door,
you can float outside,
an empty boat, a balloon deflating
with no strings.

This is what you must do next:
Mourn for goldfish in a bowl,
your first parakeet, a friend
who went east.  You are left
with a shopping bag of clothes,
some books, two quarts of milk.

Think of easter bread rising.
Dream of holding pumpkins,  ripe plums.

Your toaster works,
there are lights
in the hall.   Rewind your watch
Carry yourself to the next room.
This is no mistake.

originally published in the Memphis State Review

Cathy McArthur (aka, Cathy Palermo) recently published poetry in The Rumpus and in Cordella. Besides appearing in The Memphis State Review, years ago, her work can currently be found in The Bellevue Literary Review (in print and online) and in The Mom Egg Review, Juked, Blueline, Barrow Street, Jacket, and The Valparaiso Poetry Review, among others. She is a part time Assistant Professor at The City College of New York where she teaches Creative Writing.