“I have gone looking for myself. If I should return before I come back keep me here.”
She had leaned over
the rail of the balcony
and somehow lost her footing.
It was a good thing she had always thought ahead
As she was most certainly dead.
She had been eating a scone.
And in that final lonely picnic
her soul walked out of her body.
Her bread crumbs still fresh on the patio,
this is where her soul lingers
But she dead, still young,
her fiber broken.
She must be in a hospital but all
around her, no matter how far or fast
she walked was the old house
And in her head: a deafening noise
her will along with the replies echoed.
It was a large house.
The place was empty if not for her
Yet someone was calling to her
the television set was on,
a hot cup of tea was steaming
The piano was open with sheets of music spread upon
Yet she could only roam that
old house, where it was always dark
and each floor told a story
Running down the stairs to the
basement where the dolls are to the higher floors, sorry,
up there where the people were.
The voices were arguing now,
“How old is she?” There should be a
cake somewhere for her
to tell. As she is pushed forward
To the balcony where the picnic was,
Still the murmur.
And the attic where the old things are.
It had always been dark even when
the lights were on. She remembered
flying. And she
is on the driveway face down
on the pavement, alone, before
her feet push on once more.
The coyotes are howling and
the house is dark.
It is cold as she rides the wind
Unable to stop or unwilling
The will is read “You already said that!”
Her husband’s voice: It sounds angry.
It has feeling now.
The doors were too heavy
The window was open
She runs faster to
the top of the hill.
A bobcat is grinning and
the trees are dead up there, where her
queen bed—more like a king’s—is.
She remembered falling but never hitting the ground.