Bitter Bliss: A Poetry Collection

Dusty Attic

Stale attic air is all you breathe

as you climb the ladder,

enter the room where unused things 

go to die, look for the trunk

where your late mother kept her late mother's lace.

The candle in your hand sputters in

the cold draft flowing from the open window.

A moth flies from the darkness and into a 

crack in the wall with strange paper spilling from it.

Your hand makes a print in the thick dust

coating a desk in the corner,

you holding onto it to keep you steady

as you look closer at a painting on the wall,

a willow tree and yellow farmhouse

textured with ancient, flaking oil paint.

The swirling flakes of ashes and motes in the winter sunlight,

apricity, you remember from your English class,

making the room feel alive, 

even though you know no one has been up here in years.

A floorboard creaks underfoot as you shy away

from the large, dead spider at the bottom of a cobwebbed beaker.

When you find the trunk, the rusted latch takes

a shove to come open, and you wince,

hoping that it doesn't break.

You set the candle down on the floor 

and raise the lid of the dimly lit trunk, 

a puff of dust released.

Picking up the candle again, 

you examine the contents of the chest,

a warm orange glow settling over the folds of lace

hand-knitted by your grandmother.

You pick up your favorite piece and recall

one afternoon in the late summer 

when you were young, before her passing,

her sitting in a rocking chair, making lace,

dimples saying more than her wrinkles as you

eat her cherry pie, flaky and sweet.

When you were done, you climbed onto her

quilt-covered lap, face smeared red and sticky,

grinning as she braided your hair.

Now, you smooth the lace out fondly,

folding it with care once more 

and placing it in your bag to take downstairs.