In our attic,
among things, as it seems
of past lives,
lives a bitter God.
When guests come to our house,
we don’t mention him.
When we’re alone,
we talk about him quietly,
fearing of being heard.
We do not know exactly when he moved in,
nor do we know why exactly with us.
Maybe because of the serenity.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘I. Am. Legend’, have been used with the permission of artist Patricio Betteo.
The red door to my home opened and the fresh smell of warm turkey and cranberry sauce collided with my senses the way Sticky
Can’t you let the film spool unseen on the stained floor? Its frames forever static as my fingers resplice our hands. Let my battalions of
I pursued him with a single minded determination that had been notably lacking in my previous endeavours. I wanted Richard to be mine like I
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