Oh, Poor House

This old house,
this old skeleton home
stands as cold as a gravestone.

I once stood warm in the middle,
on soft ground,
on proud carpet
and let the seams out,
unravelling my solid foundation.

My blood didn’t mix well.
It was dry gin,
a steady confrontation
within.

These old thoughts,
these moldy walls,
we’ve sunk deep.
It hasn’t slept since I left.
I chose to be deaf.

I chose this aloneness,
a silent voice sipping on charcoal,
dreaming about a house
that once was a home.

Oh, poor house.
Your empty threshold is tempting but,
now I know,
I have shed you,
and my boiling red blood has
calmed to blue.

I do not miss you.

Canker Sore

I think of my skeleton as a
canker, burning hollow in
a deep, deep cave.

My son cries about my skeleton and
I tell him,
“hush now! It is just bones. 
It is just white, not blood or bed.”
And it is not.

I have a long, thin canker and
I have a man with knitting hands.
He wraps me in warm stitches;
in strong pursuit.
He points me with pressed thumbs
just enough that
I pound with his heartbeat.

I am a canker and he is a mouth hosting
an ulcer. He cleans,
cauterizes me with searing tips and
I cry about my skeleton and he says,
“hush now, it is just bones.”
But, it is not.

My Sister, A Fried Potato

My sister speaks oily.
Brown.
Cooked.

I fried her up near the New Year.
A harsh time of the year,
for me.
Snow chills the others,
but, me,
I am the snow.

Piling up in their driveways.
Icing porch steps.
Breaking China ties,
porcelain
life.

The mailbox glares at me
every time
I visit. Empty handed.

I write every day. Letters to myself.
Memories.
Fear.
Hurt.
Shame.

Never has my hand thought to
write
to Idaho.
To a fried potato.

She Snaps Like A

She snaps like a
twig from a
dead oak tree
She snaps
her fingers,
one,
two,

THREE!!!!!!

Standstill! Who will
draw first

Three sisters, count them.
One.
Two.
Three.

Huddled in her meat cleaver,
she leaves them.
Dead meat.

Red, raw
meat for the taking.
Marinated to
manipulated savory.

Three girls with
guilt blonde hair. Three
scared
little witches, fixing burns,
breaking dishes.

That’s what happens when the
flip switches,
she twitches into
rags –
stomping floorboards,
dropping little blonde
hair into body
bags

feeds dirty lies
from her
mothering, smothering hands.

The Tolley House At Green Gate

I share a broom with Virginia
and Miriam, I
have not had the pleasure
of either of the two
Green Gate
maids,

but I know
that their knees squeak louder
than mine
and
that
elbow oil lubricates their
twists.

I can tell by
the way they leave
my broom settled
in
corners.

Its
terse whisker
stick
mocks my grip,
my sweeping angle.
I try
to lead our waltz but my
broom laughs at me,
certain of my clumsiness.

We fight for direction
over the
trite,
Tolley boards
of the old Tolley
House.

Mr. Tolley had taken a wife…

Sarah;
a one-legged chicken farm
who burst babies
all over these elderly boards, then
cleaned them
herself as ten of her children
rolled their deathbeds atop.

Virginia and Miriam must
remind my offensive broom
of Sarah.

Sarah and her discipline.
Sarah and her doctrine.
Sarah and her ten dead babies.

I think my broom is in love with Sarah.

It refuses
my suggestive
movements to clear
old dust from the floors.

I have no choice, I decide.

I toss the broom out
to
a patio
that hosted a Tolley family portrait once,

grab my very own electronic
sucking machine
and suck the dead babies
out from
abysmal,
woe coated
slits.

The Loose Hurricane

That fool of a Hurricane came along
wearing her precious
golden wig

her bitch stamp

tempestuous temptress
twirling
spinning
violence through
internal bricks and boards

I am a carpenter
a blood sculptor
The Queen

my masterpiece
in matching
patterns
nailed to the walls

my precious dynasty
garnished with
parallel features
inside and
out

muscles and brawn
My King
mixed with this
destructive
maniacal
windstorm

she rushed him
in her
giant waves

into her vast Ocean
her wet white body

then ripped and yanked
at my prized
creation
jerking
wrenching
until defeat ambushed
her
from behind

she resigned

and I was left
with my masterpiece
to clear the clutter
the debris

watching the Ocean for the
return of
my King.

 

 

Overlay

The woman with the old walls
painted new walls in her
home

Burnt red was smothered with
pale yellow,
a non-fattening banana
ice cream
wall.

She covered up the old walls
often, burying
old lovers
and gross mistakes. She could
scrub the greasy
instances
but  her eyes will not pick
out the dirty spots
without
a finger,
that is not her own,
pointing out
the
places that pollute
the walls.

Even if her eyes could show her,
her elbows do not have
strength enough
to scrub
scrub
scrub
the past away.

This Must Have Been Where I Learned It

It is not hard wood, not the
gleaming – glossy
hard wood.
It is unpolished.
Raw wood.

It was built quick and quietly. An emergency.
Like when a young girl was
sent away quickly
then
returned – everything in
tact, yet emptier.
Ssshhh…We don’t talk about that. 

It did not have the luxury of central air
or Vinyl Siding…
an “unfinished home”.

Unpolished, unfinished and
dysfunctional!!
The hot water was arrogant and the
cold water, cruel!
December nights waltzed in through the
cracks in the unstable
structure like they were made to take over the
place.

Pneumonia often leeched it’s way in,
threatening the morsel of comfort contained in
bronchial tubes.
Homes are cold and aloof though,
comfort is of no concern to them.
The set-up just stood, hard and rigid.
The floor boards shrieking out, as
if a bare-foot was
too much to sustain.

After some time, the ceiling began to cave. It had
been standing straight for
as long as its resources would allow.
It grew weak and frail, the floor
began to rot away, broken windows
sat bandaged back together, paralyzed.
Cinder blocks carried in cobwebs
that housed spiders more comfortably
than this house did its inhabitants.

One day, all of the inhabitants
packed and went away. No remorse, no sadness,
just the bare-feet walking further and further away.