THE HOUSE
—Adam Zagajewski
Do you still remember what the house was like?
The house—a pocket in a snowstorm's overcoat,
houses, low and bulging like Egyptian vowels.
Sheltered by green tongues of trees—
the most faithful was the linden, it shed
dry tears each fall.
Outmoded dresses dangled in the attic
like hanged men. Old letters flamed.
The old piano dozing in the parlor,
a hippo with black and yellow teeth.
on the wall a cross from a failed uprising
hung crookedly, and a photo
of a sad girl—a failed life.
The air smelled like vermouth,
bitter and sweet at once.
Houses, houses, where are you,
under what ocean, in what memory,
beneath the roof of what existence?
While the wind was opening windows, a deep blue
past sneaked into the rooms
and stifled the muslin curtains' breathing.
The fire was death's intended
and brought her bouquets of pale sparks.
_______________________
The Kieths continue to exorcise their deep blue pasts, or at least the seedier purple ones. But at least we're back online.
Poetry this week:
•••Monday (10/9), 7:30 PM: