Ellie Altman

Inventory

She cleans most mornings,
surveying her house’s wood floors
for her life’s inventory of scratches and scars.

When the iron fell from the ironing board,
leaving a huge gash
on the laundry room floor.

When three cans of coconut milk
slipped from her arms
making half-moon dents
on the pantry floor.

When she was drying it,
she lost her grip and the butcher knife fell,
making a big ding next to the floor mat
at the kitchen sink.

And when the dog barks uncontrollably
and races full tilt from the front door
to the porch door to the back door,
scoring a pattern of scratches that marks the path
for warding off attack from the mail carrier,
lest she dares to enter the house.

Her whole life carved out
on these floors, yet
no blood spilt,
no pain felt—
only the pull of gravity
and its everyday violence.

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After retiring as director of Adkins Arboretum (Maryland’s Eastern Shore) in 2014, Ellie Altman began writing poems. Her first published poem, “How to Peel an Egg,” appeared in The Broad River Review. She is seeking publication of two chapbooks, Within Walking Distance and Thin as Air.