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Show THE WIDOW'S HOUSE Sits heavier on its foundation now but no one sees this. The lamps in the windows burn just as bright. The furnace pumps warm air just as before just as in that November, 1931, they first stepped inside he kicking snow from his boots she, curled in a cloud of arms a cresent moon drifting across a white sky. The floors had spring then beneath their steps but now in the core of each board a shaft of cold lead grows and spreads and one by one shingles break away from the roof and fly off into the night. In their place, crows come to roost until there is a roof of crows like a heavy black snow. The rafters cry beneath their weight, the attic windows burst the basement walls groan and split. Inside beneath the trembling ceilings life moves slowly. A step into the bathroom now is a cold cemetary walk each tiny white tile has grown a name and date - an angel or a winged skull. (continued, stanza break) |
