Collector’s Edition; To The One Who Points
I think of my pain as a game of clue:
Two cousins in the piano teacher’s house
With the orange tang mouths. Bunkbed.
Beat-you-up, Mario Cart. Maybe you win this one.
I roll the highest and proceed clockwise,
I hold three to six cards in these hands I’ve always had.
I move to the study and take the secret passage to the
Kitchen, the hardest room to reach. I block the door.
I name a room, a suspect, a weapon.
I peek inside the sleeve, I leave room for doubt.
And leave the room when they’re around.
I have power of recall, a pair of dice, a room of my own
And figurines so small and so old. I throw them across a room.
I flip the board. I crush them between my fingers.
I slide them into my back pocket. I place them upon my mantle.
I pretend that this thing I have in every room I’ve been
Began with a set of rules and ends when
I name them: Who did it, and how, and where.
To The One Who Points
To the one who points
At ribbon of blood on Front Street
At seals like sandbags on beach
Who points to reach animal bodies
Body animated, reaching
To the one who points at caribou antlers
Painted up like loons, mounted and flying.
Tired, he has the time down, cap curving
But he’s trying to turn out good.
Pursed lips and cursed with the fevers of
Burning snow, kitchen floor, dip and glory.
He tells me a story in the daytime,
Hit the bullseye, he says, lips curling.
Tiffany Rosamond Creed holds a bachelor's degree in Film Studies from Portland State University and will graduate with a Master of Fine Arts in Literary Nonfiction from the University of Alaska Anchorage December 2018. She enjoys drinking coffee, finding new music, and watching the sun come back a couple minutes at a time each day. She lives in Kotzebue, Alaska