I can finally see myself
think.
The sucker-punch to the gut
bickering,
dwindling.
The crumbling walls shudder less—
floorboards grow roots in reverse;
time has stopped watching.
A cloud-shaped woman
holds the spider’s end string
baring her home’s
knotted frame.
Owls come to her windows to pray.
It is so quiet.
The house remembers her days
in Eden’s woods—
sees through each tree’s eye,
still;
hears the heartbeat with the ears of deers,
the song of her skirt lifted high.
It is dead quiet.
Gone quiet.
These walls are alive, quiet.
Gossiping staff gone home for the day,
quiet:
after hours, quiet.
I feel my pulse in every limb.
An owl turns its head to see—
bite the head off the lazy horizon.
When He comes
peeking around walls—
a neo-natal vacuum made of dust.
He is the same every time:
nothing to say with no mouth;
nothing to do but keep watching.
He’s all eyes—
God’s perfect indifference.
Screaming outside.
And singing.
A parade of Hawaiian-shirted guests
walk single file
into the dripping blood sunset.
They are chatting:
praising in awe
the midnight gazelle
diving in
and back out
of Her golden thatched roof;
damning
the new boss
to hell.
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