by Haley Walsh
Actualization and self-admiration in flux;
Shifting linoleum floor tiles and
Make shift identities to suit the now.
A chair sat like a pew
With me sat in it
Like the venerated,
Occupying space, but letting light through.
Just a pair of shuffling feet without a shadow.
Love like holy water
Mistaken for rain water
When drunk from the wrong chalice.
This room is cramped
But the upper left window pane
Looks like Van Gogh in the spring.
I am certain of few things:
Just the scent of cheap, rose soap on my skin,
The Last Supper hung on the wall,
And the knowledge that I can depend on you
To get your pound of flesh
And cheap silver too.
There’s Lily of the Valley in a glass milk bottle on the counter
And your eyes bore into me as every bone I broke as a child aches.
Your silence sits well with my pain
Making a martyrdom of this kitchen.
These are the groans of a settling house
Wanting so badly to be a home.