poem #22
March 7, 2021
ivy
i built this house stone by stone. my fingers bled from all the work. i pulled up the drawbridge but not before letting you in. i witnessed you plant something, i allowed it to grow and grow. now ivy climbs and strangles the walls. buried deep in the foundations and lifting my floors. the windows now completely covered, i forced those shutters closed. i locked the basement, but the flies crawl through the cracks. i swat them away; more come - the body you hid down there no doubt. the yellow wallpaper that i hate; peeling at the edges and tobacco stained. i risk a glance outside, is that you? i know it has been years since you last climbed that fence. i must find those shears, i thought i had them here. did you take those too? the near constant drizzle of rain; oppressive clouds coagulate over me like voluptuous rolls of fat in the sky. i shiver against the damp chill, but the fires cannot be lit. i imagine you surrounded by light, bathed in an orange, diaphanous glow of warm July sunshine.