Anatomy of the Ear
A two-part birdsong, as many are, the phoebe’s identity
song of “me, me,” and then the cardinal’s approach
to life—“cheer, cheer.” How the mouth opens, waits.
Getting down to work, I realize I’m hungry—a round
juicy clementine in my pocket to peel and eat.
One morning, in another house, I put on Mozart,
windows open, and a finch fluttered down—I don’t
know what kind—and sang along with the flute.
I couldn’t move for beauty. And now the red bird’s
second song floats out, “whit, whit, whit, too, too,
too.” Once, there was a poet who said that nature
could be our teacher, nurse, muse. I put down
my pen, opening my ears, malleus, and incus,
hammer, anvil, the tympanic cavity,
the little hairs sense vibration and rise.
How to Get the Stain Out
Take the December calendar down and X out that day.
Check the wi-fi connection so the phone’s sure to work if
you have to call for help.
Make a list of every kind thing he did.
Make a list of your own kindnesses.
Burn both lists.
Try running water, try rubbing the spot.
Put the house up for sale and sell the furniture.
Ask your sister if therapy helped.
Give instructions on how not to spill.
Tattoo on your hand: spill nothing.
Don’t use a rug or a towel to mop up a mess.
Invent a new story of how he died.
Repeat it till the spot fades.
Patricia Clark’s seventh book, O Lucky Day, came out earlier this year; one of its poems won a Pushcart Prize and will be included in the 2026 anthology. New work has just been out in Atlanta Review and North American Review and appears soon in Plume, Diagram, and more.