A small (or large) machine

She busies herself making a machine for

resistance—a clothespin catches a wire

and a hatchet comes down, soundless,

onto the pillow—but she flinches, feels

a need for cliché like a need for cake frosting,

decides meanwhile to build a tripod from

limbs of crepe myrtle, jack pine, bubinga,

pushes the pedal forward a half-turn.

She is suspicious of severe goddesses

of the late Victorian sort, shuns sherbet-

toned Medusas, effervescent tentacles

and yolk. No, not yet: she places a moth

on each saucer, runs narrow-gauge wire

through aluminum, splices circuits so

the butter knife she bolted to a rotary

motor clinks a goblet with each pass.

That will do for now. If she can touch it,

it’s kitsch; if she can hear it, it’s dreck.

She stashes regret behind a breakfront,

but he sees her do it, pretends he only

recommends the amethyst oysters, leans

across her lap to douse the light again.