In this house that is only a house,
I move all the furniture around
according to your wanting,
your fingers pointing here,
there,
wherever a space remains e m p t y like the insides of my ribs,
you fill with your oak shelves flooded by books
written in all languages I'm not familiar with,
my feet waltzing in the music of your commands,
the belting beats of your insistence, here
there,
the anthem of a war whereas I only know how to sing of white flags.
We dance here under the fluorescent bulbs,
soundless except for our breathing,
the sighs, the soft snaps, the sorry
your steps I follow like a child to his father,
like the tides to the moon in pitch-black evenings, here
there,
there,
like a hand to the darkness in a stark hotel room.
In this house that is only a house,
I let you claim every room as yours
even though we sha re the mortgage,
and I sleep in the attic crowded by spiders and old loves
wondering if I've made the mistake of moving in, here
where I am e v e r y w h e r e
but
n o w h e r e
all at once.
I sleep dreamless every night.
YOU ARE READING
Fools
PoetryWords by Fransivan MacKenzie Illustrations by Cali Isobel "FOOLS" is a small collection of poetry accompanied by illustrations that reek of love in its rawest nature, therefore defying all kinds of logic. All sixteen poems (excluding the tiny ones o...
