Maggie Smith: Stonefish

There are fish in the black trenches
of the sea that look like rocks.
Their poison shouldn’t trouble me.
They are so deep, we’ll never touch.
But I think of them. If it is paranoid
to believe there is a trench in me
the doctors haven’t dragged,
a cave no one’s plumbed with light,
then fine, I’m paranoid. But whatever
plaques and tangles, whatever cells
wait deadly with their terrible hunger
must be disguised. You should know
the most venomous fish lives
in the shallows. It also looks like a rock.

Maggie Smith: Reading the Train Book, I think of Lisa

In the board book there is a train, not a train
but a picture of a train on thick cardboard pages
my son fumbles to turn. In the book with a spine
gummed soft, there is no car parked beside the tracks
and no black-haired woman standing by the car
not parked beside the tracks. In the book
there is a train, each car its own color, one car
heaped high with coal, not coal but a drawing of coal.
See the engine, the neat cloud of steam above it,
not steam at all, and the engineer in his striped cap
smiling in the little window, not a window.
In the book there is no black-haired woman
on the tracks, not tracks. I am holding my son
who is holding the train book and waiting
for me to sing the long, happy sound, not happy
but a warning, doubled and doubled again.

Maggie Smith: Stitches

Twice they opened me
and twice, after sewing me shut,

                they said the thread would dissolve,
                they said my body would dissolve

the thread. But see how frugal
I’ve become, saving every stitch

                for future alterations and repairs.
                Any woman with my blood

saves—is a saver. When given one
sheet of paper, my daughter

                cuts out the heart she wants
                and keeps the scraps for stars,

snowflakes, flowers. Twice
they cut babies from my body,

                but the body remains.
                See how nothing is wasted.

The more they cut, the more I have.

Maggie Smith: Good Bones

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.