In Town For A Funeral, We Drive Past Our Old House And See It Is For Sale
so we three sisters stumble home and find a widow
wandering from room to room, with a fragile smile,
as if she knows there’s someone missing from our tale.
As we trail graveyard gravel along her doormat she tells us hers:
We moved here to be near the sea but within a year, he’d died.
We say we’re sorry and do not glide across the hallway ice-rink
the way we used to, or lasso our scarves around the banisters, but we slide our dusty shoes
in spirals of our past and, when her back is turned, twirl arthritic fingers
over stories in the walls, lingering in tiny swirls of punctuation, familiar under years of paint.
On the news, balaclava’d, black-clothed men are abseiling again
down white stucco walls, exploding grenades, marking…
View original post 535 altre parole