Static

I look around.
cookbooks are lined up.
moths trapped between the season and the god.

an infinite mistake funhouse.
otherwise, the death outside persists.
the space of weeding. another row.

I realize it has not begun.
vague spaces from the surrounding apples.
the rumblings of thunder. the space of the finch.

the hum of the refrigerator.
not too bright not too drawn not bad at all.
I open my factors, they cave the organization.
I keep thinking I hear the reply.

Static

I look around.
cookbooks are lined up.
moths trapped between the sediment and the gown.

at this appetite I am attuned.
another rumor.
I realize it has not begun.

the rumblings of thunder.
the hum of the refrigerator.
I open my fantasies, the certainty they outline.
I keep time I hear the fulcrum.

Emily Barton Altman is the author of two chapbooks, "Bathymetry" (Present Tense Pamphlets, 2016), and "Alice Hangs Her Map" (dancing girl press, 2019). Recent poems appear in LIT, The Spectacle, Second Factory, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in Poetry from NYU and a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Denver. She teaches at Michigan State University.