crushed flower petals
frozen in dust-held grime
they clutch
and quiver under
old tile counters and
showers of termite feces.
Some old houses
keep people like cradles
in embrace of stasis
pretending that wood is not warping
professing that nails never rust
and can forever support
walls from foundations for floors
that sustain feigned banquets
cooing perpetually in an ancient embrace of decay
stitch the fallen threads
soothe warping wood
clean rusty nails
fixing at the same speed as dying.
When we moved to this house
the old faucet broke in the bath tub,
greeting us with a flood which soaked
the hallway carpet and living room floor for days
We’ve still never cleaned it up.
What a homestead we made…
elderly before birth
a sunset perpetually ending,
strategies for escape
that never reached fruition
because we were essentially building a dying house
within a dying world
while dreaming of not dying.
You wanted me to keep you alive
you begged so often for just a few more seconds
to lap up hopes melting under a thousand summers suns
but all I could do was watch you
expiring slowly over your rotting bedrock
you exposed me, paralyzed to your death,
and so we died together for a little while
in that dying house
within a dying world
while dreaming of not dying.
