Hometown

Kersten Christianson

Shuttered up winter town: rain puddling

in the gutters and cracks, I am the string

of inconsistencies. Twinkle lights;

eight bulbs burned out, half winking

stars flash against the art shop’s storm-

dirty windows.  Blink of an eye,

the blue of the mailbox gnarled,

twisted by the drunk driver leaving

the Moose Lodge.  The Russian curios line

the dusty shelves of the old Random House

gift shop:  Lacquer boxes, Faberge baubles,

Matryoshkas, the little nest of dolls (one word

inside another, inside another) in rain gear, dry

boots, a neophyte of joy buoyed

in the crack of flashy January sunlight,

the truth of sky just before the dark.