there is a house that i live in
it is empty now
save for the layered blues and greens
muted under the lamp light
of layered rugs
and lazy writings
this twilight slants through me
you do not track mud in and out of our home
no
it is the pulp of wilted petals i grew in the garden out back
tracked
bruised and torn and bleeding onto my father’s persian carpet
in the living room
what about contentment?
i fear that if i am not careful to tiptoe
across lines of linen and cloth
hung
the inevitable return
will grip me before i am ready
my ex-believer
could have emerged from the dirt
in beads of synthetic fertilizer
a sign of the times
limb by limb
a skull molded from steel
chipped at with two front teeth
my dirtied fingernails scratching at the glory of you
animal beneath sheaths of keratin
now
teething on chapped lips
in all of this
full disclosure:
i have not opened the windows
i have not covered the mirrors
i have not saged the bedroom
i have not emptied the glasses in the sink
i will you to linger here longer