My Cat Answers the Question: "Why Are You Standing in the Doorway?"

I am exploring liminal spaces.
A threshold. You will see me at night,
gazing into the lamps—Suddenly!
The moth! A flurry of paws, claws, a fury
that leaves me. . .
melancholic.

So I rest with the moth
between my lips and sharp teeth
and feel the rustling,
the edge of its existence.
I am sad for a moment, and then savor
the power of my closing jaws.

Did not Schrödinger write
of such suspended moments?
Hamlet should have embraced
his moment and understood
that collapsing or not
is not the question. The crumpled paper
of the ruined poem is always
both toy and not. Is the art finished?
That smell from the box…
stench? Or vital information
about my intake of moths and spiders?

But we digress.
I have limned liminality enough.
When I pose in the dappled sun,
stretched muscles rippling
along the sill of the window, remember:
I am exploring, so deeply my eyes creep shut,
the spaces between one state and another.


James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA

Shelter Against the Storm by James Engelhardt

Our Christmas season
has been haunted by
a frost-ringed moon;
at Johnson's party,
we drink too much
mulled wine chased
with shots of hard liquor
hidden on the back porch.
Every hour we take quick hits
off rarer and rarer joints.

We tell jokes
whose punchlines end
with bodily functions
or four-letter words
that are not 'love'
though we mean them to be.

And our wives
roll their eyes as if
to find some bright planet
away from us.

And we are driven home
by these women
through a gently threatening
Southern winter storm.

We wake the children,
cry with them
if the snow doesn't stick.


James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA

Compass Points by James Engelhardt

As you drift the winter Mekong River
will you recall the taste of our red wine?

The games of chance and skill, the push-hands
by the lake with the heron, the restaurant patios?

I look into the clouded sky and the stars say
we four have been friends many lives before,

before we shared those hand-carved pipes at dusk,
and, in our shabby clothing, looked at sacred things.

The rains will swell our streams before you return,
and all the green their wet breath brings

will overcome our gardens here
when we gather together one more time

to separate the endless weeds
from the herbs we steep for tea.


James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA

Spiders Inside by James Engelhardt

One early October morning I head into the kitchen
and I don't use the microwave but I notice anyway
the thick webs connecting it to the nearby wall.

What I notice really isn't the webs. To be accurate,
I sense the dark shadow of a spider. And then
I wonder how it was hanging there, which was stupid.

A good-sized spider, too, the length of the first bone
of my index finger. I want to say it's smart
because the ones on the floor get eaten by my cat.

But there aren't many other insects to eat
where it's spun it's dense, white webs. I puff on it
to chase it back under the weird, flat-button oven.

My wife doesn't really care for spiders, but likes
other bugs even less. We don't use the microwave
much and I don't see the spider for a few days.

Dana warms up some leftovers, the web tears
but it's repaired next day and I feel good. It's autumn
and the spider and I keep finding enough to eat.

James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA

We Grow to Resemble Each Other by James Engelhardt

At night, the chairs breathe freely.
If there is a new piece of furniture,
the others turn and introduce themselves:
"I am a chair. And you?" "A lounger."
The couch, footstool, sideboard all ask questions
about the stranger's early life, inspect the newness.
No spills, yet, no tooth marks, no flatulence.
No one has fallen onto it, stubbed a toe.
The imported wickerish thing
asks questions none can understand,
but even the lounger admires the lacquer.

Over time, dining and living room sets
get separated, their howls
so high-pitched even dogs can't hear them.
Grief can make furniture indiscrete,
cause them to snap—even under the delicate weight
of a shrinking grandmother.

Some age proudly, are slim, unobtrusive,
understand more than they let on.
They murmur to each other about Old World values,
about market prices and rates of appreciation,
ignore the Art Deco and Bauhaus pieces,
will not speak to anything designed
by Frank Lloyd Wright, no matter how polite.

Out in the barn, chairs miss legs, seats.
Tables without tops look like andirons.
Loungers sprawl unstuffed, springs shot.
Identifying tags, family histories,
distinctive paint and finials—all have been removed.
Slumping, bruised, they turn to each other,
"What's your story?"

James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA