The House
With stained red awnings
Long abandoned
Sealed with the dust of linden
I won’t break in to claim
The chess board that taught
Nothing but patience
I won’t break in to salvage
The cherry bole
Trapped in the hearth
The gangrened bough
With leaves curled
Like fossilized fetuses
Though that’s all I need
For the borş fermenting
In the massive glass jar
That nests in the cellar
If I do it right
The tonic will replenish
Misspent flora the splinter
will release the orchard
If I do it right
Golden orb-weavers have spun
Silk wheels sturdier than steel
To snare errant sparrows
Hammocks that might hold
Two bodies ghost hearsay
I already know
You can’t break in for me
And I won’t break in
To search for myself
Plume: Issue #98 October 2019