Monday, December 14, 2020

Black Orchard House

 

a rare photography as unable to see where most have heard rumors. walls that whisper houses that yell or carpet holding memories. windows rattle where trains are moving someone placed a chair out there. or an old sink a rusty toilet the bathroom looks empty. with more to exhaust or pitchers of invisibility such filthy futons. so many rooms all blending it’s hard not to stumble. a child woke up to a scream. he walked the long vestibule. mother wasn’t in her room. the child searched like wilderness he slept near the screen door. mother woke him—took him in her arms—her body was soaked in sweat. the boy closed his eyes. mother caressed his brows. he awoke to a deceased mother. it lives where it dies it’s a patch of memories. too spacey or too spatial while living is an adventure. so many regrets such excellence while never prepared for human spontaneity. a box of notes a last letter an eloquent rationalization; a scented pillow, someone washed it, it was the last connection to mother. it was done purposely, it was too much to relive, where one looks to fix broken pipes. our disconnected ceilings our collective avenues our dear dramatized existence. to realize waisted confetti or sky calligraphy while most trauma becomes pantomime. to sit unattached—to dreams or castles or essence or breath; ruined for most or fitting in—with a group no one praises; to hurt each other, to deceive by rights, such sandwiches made of humility.

it was odd, no one knew—exactly where she had come from. so much a breathtaking soul. so alert, aloof, so distant. she spoke with an accent. we tried to enter her. her room was vampire.     she liked darkness, or cutting herself, such a hysterical chuckle. she smoked, just about anything, with a liking for the older kids. she would undress, spin in circles, and fall without interruption.     she had a pet bat. she would chase it. her mother sensed a deeper darkness. this aged creature this coffin as a bed those prints or paws. to come one day, with an eerie excitement, to find the house empty and a note in crayon.   

I’d Save The Reader Years

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