we talk about the past,
\nthe first time we took off our shoes
\nwhispered in the cobwebbed corners.<\/p>\n
For me it was that day on tenth street
\nthe old house standing like a man
\nwith missing teeth, disheveled<\/p>\n
among all the clean suburban lines.
\nOf course it called to us and we stood
\nwith scabbed brown knees <\/p>\n
and one of the boys – I don’t remember
\nwhich one \u2013 Freddie, most likely,
\nwith his skewed freckles and dirty<\/p>\n
fingernails – said there was a dead
\nbody in the room upstairs, the closet.
\nA dare to enter this house<\/p>\n
with black air in the windows
\ninstead of glass, unkempt trees
\nrubbing the dust, fear and longing<\/p>\n
sharp splinters inside my feet.
\nMy hand pushes through into
\nthis emptiness, disappears the way<\/p>\n
things do when time swallows them.
\nWhat is it you hold in your mouth when
\nyou’ve chewed up all the words and can’t<\/p>\n
go on? That’s what my lips held then,
\nclimbing the steps, reaching for the doorknob,
\nhand cupped, ready to turn.<\/p>\n
Published in: we talk about the past, the first time we took off our shoes whispered in the cobwebbed corners. For me it was that day on tenth street the old house standing like a man with missing teeth, disheveled among all the clean suburban lines. Of course it called to us and we stood with scabbed … <\/p>\n
\nThe Comstock Review
\nFall\/Winter 2015<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"