When I was a girl

I wanted to live

inside of one. 
A wooden, small

place to hold me.

I was in love 
with its bird

face. I imagined us

married. The dream 
of domesticity. Keeping

house à la bric-a-brac

or conversation piece.  
But time has told

what makes them tick.
 
More machinations 
than magic. Dark

pastoral scenes

and a stiffness  
crowns the eaves.

Clockmakers all carve
 
the same male game  
in their overhang.

Reared buckhorns

and alpha beasts — 
They rule the ornate

roost. And it’s a heavy

pull on me. Those two  
coniferous strung

weights dangling

their gonadal hang.
Tammy Robacker is our Poet in Residence for June. Previously: Hymen, Summer of Boys, and Reading Rousseau at the Seattle Women’s Clinic.

Previously published The Fem Literary Magazine, 2016; and Villain Songs (ELJ Editions 2017).