![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0iLLaa55h-v1HN1KXkK2yQHwzd4MkG5xVyHhSQS7tVcSO_A0cU-pGd04AFigzM_WRtQqdyipa_YWQlcdONDRDJgW3AMboVhyBKo4sYutf64FbWsrHoFcZqZu2C9qnW0UQroGfPwK0xrA/s1600/scrabble+tiles+CN.jpg)
at night with their son
while I read in the bedroom,
the door always ajar
like my book
half opened to sounds
of the game.
Small clicks of wood,
now a sigh,
my husband hums
(it’s not his turn).
They ask each other,
“Is n-u-x a word?”
If I would watch
from the doorway,
two grey heads
and a peppered one,
bent low over troughs
of letters
would worry the tiles
eyes
dragging from letters
to board and back.
But I will not rise
from this nest of sound.
Here words weigh nothing
and all the players have won.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS38_wbrXGn7Lnfg__VnBOpF-N5tQ2VuWInwDx_dWWS0MyPpB3_2V6oHmEZ7TNbPoWPASx1-a3Pk8sffpR5DEKqp4c5m4MqQwBtqGmcgMPPXkv9G_ap2zI7yBnsUJqfWyzRsbjL9N9BPg/s200/cropped-mir1.jpg)
"Listening to Scrabble" by Miriam Pederson, from This Brief Light: Poems. © Finishing Line Press, 2003.
Art credit: Untitled image by Chalayn.
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