By Kat Dixon

I am neither shadow nor wife. I have no hand for painting
flowers nor how they fill any room or bedspread or plate

of meats for guests who come to fill my house and how
that happens. How unlucky to have a secret, women, how

unlucky it is to have. I have one broken finger
still but am no wife. Check through these windows at my

winter leaves: they are green with life. This pill-by-pill makes one
book and cowers. And so we are at home together, after hours.

Today’s poem previously appeared in ILK journal and appears here today with permission from the poet.

Kat Dixon is the author of the poem-book Temporary Yes (Artistically Declined Press 2012). She lives in Atlanta, where she is currently completing her MA in American Studies. For more information, visit

Editor’s Note: Today’s poem is rife with mysteries and darkness hidden just beneath its surface. I am fascinated by the two sides of the coin the poet offers—that one is either shadow or wife—and by the notion that a broken finger might be akin to wifely status. The cryptic and Gothic nature of the content of the poem is corroborated by its form, by the sing-song quality that invokes for readers a nursery rhyme—that same marriage of dark and light belonging to the Brothers Grimm and Mother Goose.

Want to see more by and about Kat Dixon?
Purchase Temporary Yes from Artistically Declined Press
Kat Dixon’s Official Website