Pearl Pirie

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in the room grown dark

there's something that isn't
intention. as surely as
anything has atoms or fields
or vibrations, there's a pressing.
the ears are full of silence
they want more of what they have.

unplugging the heater
a blue reaches back
as the gap between plug
and outlet increase. the
small lit flare looks like panic.
it isn't. the arc looked like success.

it isn't. it falters at holding the
connection. even electricity
wants to continue. every little
thing has its momentum.

middle aged

if my skin were any thinner
or drier or more delicate

I’d enter the room with
the hide-dingle of joints

ball and pinion clappers.
the shine is not sweat

but the brassiness
my father called me on–

it finally has had its tarnish
knocked off by my ringing.

fingers weren’t made to clasp
each other, folded in a lap.

skin wasn’t built to bare
for a burden of please, listen.

to slap upside head would be
injurious to hand. to swing the bell,

the heavy weight within, body
rings resonant with Time to Do.


Pearl Pirie has 22 single-author chapbooks, 3 poetry collections, 6 broadsides, 18 group chapbooks, and poems in half a dozen anthologies have been published. Chalkpaths is her manuscript service.