Cardboard boxes wheeled in through the door,
Neighbors listened as the screams were suppressed.
Shoplifted dreams and expectations are stored,
Seeking a new final place to rest.
Our old house was like a garden
On a Saharan night in May,
Our new house is the wrapping paper
One morning after Christmas Day.
Cranes roost on the picket fence,
Gleeful stares shattering our windows,
While you watch nightly new programs
And the over burns our first dinner.
Raindrops spill over pots strewn across the floor,
Falling through our bedroom ceiling.
Retreating to my chair I contemplate these feelings
Longing for the flames that burned our home
Yearning for the fire that charred your face
Forgetting the flames that spared our hate,
Pouring another glass of scotch to douse my regret.
Water runs down the door’s throat
Cutting off the house’s lower level
Washing away our unpacked cardboard
Diluting open liquor bottles on the table
Vomiting old photos of our wedding night
Flooding from the front door into the street.
Cranes fly from storm clouds to the creaky roof.
Staring, my empty glass reflects a distorted face,
Winds blow a moldy scent through my nostrils
And a puddle numbs my bare feet.
“Freyr’s Morning Meal”
Cranes settled by the garden side, watching with remorse,
Our two plates piled with pancakes on the clean kitchen table.
Cloudy skies peeled away revealing an orange globe
Hanging from the neck of a raven taking a final flight west.
Cattle grazed and goats rammed heads along the fence,
Peacocks preened inside our kitchen, stripped of two walls,
As we sat in silence, pouring syrup and stale whiskey.