Poem of the Week | July 07, 2025

“After the Architecture Tour” by Kate Partridge is our Poem of the Week.

Kate Partridge is the author of two poetry collections: THINE (Tupelo, 2023) and Ends of the Earth (U. of Alaska, 2017). Her poems have appeared in FIELD, Yale Review, Pleiades, Michigan Quarterly Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Copper Nickel, and other journals. She lives in Denver, where she is an assistant professor of English at Regis University.

After the Architecture Tour

        Old Dearborn Bank Building, 1928

She says, you know, it’s ironic
        that they’ve carved all these squirrels outside of the bank—the
nut hoards an emblem of saving—since squirrels always forget
        a few. That’s
why we have oak trees.

That isn’t precisely true—not
        all of the oaks—but the point is made. Adorable,
this disaster, the creation of immense beauty and shade.
        The squirrels
running the fence in

our yard are pure id, at this point;
        they open our porch packages by gnawing straight through
the sides and leave, as a warning, I guess, the headless chocolate
        Easter bun-
ny for all to see.

Truly lawless, one invited
        himself into my neighbor’s kitchen and stayed a while.
The key seems to be, just act like you belong there, and take what
        you want. This,
more or less the same

principle used when breastfeeding
        in public—you just have to do it, like everyone
is with you at a nude beach. The excess visibility
        can almost make
you invisible,

like that psychology study
        with the dancing gorilla right in the center of
the screen. You won’t see him unless you try. I bet if they were
        interested
the squirrels would make

fascinating art. Presently,
        they are running a sort of variety show focused on
taunting pets—some fuck-you jazz hands to the dog contained in one
        yard, hello
with a hat tip to

the window cat trembling with rage.
        All the scurrying around to sort their scattered hoards
by location, type of nut. This honest work, part of the show;
        sometimes they
stage a burial

with nothing in the casket, fake
        a cache to throw watchers off the path. The act proceeds
later, in secret: behind, below. What appears a wildly
        inefficient
strategy for

investment is, in fact, divers-
        ification: there is no way to lose at once all
those piles buried everywhere. All the dramas—inheritance,
        a kingdom
divided in three—

are avoided if you simply
        don’t know how many piles there are. Maybe I would trust
the squirrels with my money. Maybe with my life. All the time
        I inflict
myself with little

tyrannies—waiting in hunger
        until mealtimes, cranking out a quick email reply.
The tour guide names other symbols of strength, of safety, patience
        in use, too—
protective lions,

sturdy oaks, the pelican, which
        kidnaps its food, stretching and bouncing in its bill, for
later use. The idea that pelicans feed their young from
        their own blood,
of course, is a myth—

but a popular one. You can
        find them, in bestiaries, readily stabbing at
their own breasts to open a font for the chicks. (Whether mom
        has killed them
in frustration, or

is only about to, varies;
        there may be three chicks scattered around, the medieval
version of true crime.) To me, this metaphor seems clearly
        invented by
someone who didn’t

understand, had kind of missed, that
        you don’t need to stab yourself to feed a human child
from the breast; there’s a nozzle attached, and it’s painful enough.
        This image,
the pelican bathed

in blood, might be useful if you’d
        like to perform a greater sacrifice, though I’m not
sure we need any more reinforcement of that ideal, that
        my body
must be entirely

surrendered to parent. I’m not
        everybody’s mom now. I’m barely my own. In the
classes we attended, the nurses emphasized that you need
        a plan for
when you want to shake

the baby: to put it down in
        the crib, safe, and take a moment in fresh air. I went
outside, those nights, for whatever chore could use me: five
        minutes to
water columbines

purple and winding in the heat,
        or to push a few shovel scoops off the driveway from
the late snow. One night, around ten, my neighbor joined me, pulling
        her shovel
from the front porch, where

they all rest. She knew, I did not
        yet, to push the snow off, not to lift. Not everything
must strain the back, all dagger and edge. You just clear a path
        for when winter
comes. Nothing ends.

Author’s Note

I visited Chicago about a year ago and spent much of the time traveling thinking of home. This poem begins with an invocation of its setting, the Old Dearborn Bank Building, in the moment that a tour guide is explaining its architectural features. The poem quickly turns, however, to an associative collage around the ideas of security, trust, visibility, and connection. The syllabic form layers memories and observations somewhat precariously until the poem’s final scene, a moment of distillation in front of another building that symbolizes safety and assurance—the home.