Spencer Reece

Spencer Reece

viii. To Those Grown Mute

it is dawn on the locked unit
the moon wheelbarrows her orchestra away
in the town the children are out of reach
my roommate’s face is a peach that rots
the correct report of who I am disperses
the bank clerk who went off Lithium to have her first baby
has a brain that will not work
she lies on her bed like a snail without a house
the slits on her wrists itch
the nurse applies her lipstick behind her plate-glass station
her question is always the same
How will you get back
I move my rosary up and down in my right hand
the windows grow blue then clear as mirrors
we are all ambassadors carrying suitcases


excerpt of  “Addresses” from THE CLERK'S TALE (Mariner Books, 2004)


Poems by Spencer Reece:



To Those Grown Mute