they built the wall slowly: one foot
at a time, leaving space around frames
spaces to enter, or leave;
walls built of stone, meeting
at corners, spaces to one
day grow dust –
and what is your home
if not for your dust –
we all have our earliest
walls built, eventually climbing,
climbing until shuttered by rafters,
by shingles and snow.
now it is later; the trees in the yard
have matured and the house
won’t hold heat
and still there is warmth in the earliest
walls: first corners and stones, those
which eventually sink, every year,
inch by inch back to the earth
the insect does
not bother me because
he’s in the house, he
because he looks
like you, he stole your brown and
sandy hair, your black dot eyes,
because we had to
squash him on
a long time ago i had this diary. like, 8-10 years ago. i was 18, 19, 20. a few years ago i thought it therapeutic to cut and paste the entries into a notebook so i could keep my favourite parts.
since i’m in it pretty bad right now, here are a few highlights:
after the slaughter there was no
motion. we stayed
clothed in bed for a very long
time. you greased
my eyelids for comfort
and blindness, you told me
you dreamed for three nights:
fictional lavender in washington
state; i’d dreamt of the heir
to a throne
i gifted you glasses for wine,
still held by their cellophane skin
while my son was unborn i called
him ‘alexi’, a namesake
the fields don’t exist in that
state, i had said, too smothered by
forest, by rock
like shadows of photographs
still developing, or an
scrapped pieces of
like our dinner, and
part is mine, a part is yours
[the second in a row, and i guess a part of some kind of series i started without knowing it, about home, and places that meant something but are now just something i remember.]
we are face to face in the
elevator. weird, because no one
stands face to face in an elevator.
in another you held
my son, kissing his face, i
was kissing your face. now we
can’t speak. the words are
unholy, and besides,
they’re not there.
sheer fabrics do more than let in the
light. we hang curtains, i pick
patterns for bed skirts,
you pay at the
you press every button
to keep me. the fabrics,
you say, can smother us too.
they explode in the sky,
an orange haze burns
horizon for weeks.
i cross one leg over the
other, one shadows the other
on purpose when walking.
they saw it coming.
ahead of him we stop, watch
melting metal rain upon the fields.
twenty nine years from now
in your photo the colours will blend,
effortless, the horizon will slope.
he will not be
in the distance my silhouette shifts its
weight to one leg, collapses an arm.
you cross a field, find the prints
of my boots in the snow.
the whiteness envelops the land.
our red sky inverts, fades into
night, one star explodes
at a time.