The Maynard
Spring 2014

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When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover

you cover the spackle and step outside
to consider your middle and index fingers

this is not a farm house
the lath and plaster are gone

the holes in the wall are not the holes she made

the ash on the recliner is not the original ash
and the tear in the storm door is not the one

left by the frantic starling

as she stood laughing on the rag rug
picking her teeth with a matchbook

nor should your hands be yellowed like the walls
but you rolled your own since childhood

first for her and then yourself

till the day she went down in a cloudburst
and her last words became a wisp

rising from a cigarette rolled in newsprint

smouldering in her fist deliberately
the way retreating water frees a stone