Poetry

old house the second

It is a large house. In rooms like cells

they sleep, they wake.

Spaciousness

becomes an uncrossable barrier.

Each individual life passes, brushes

and scatters. Imaginary contact.

The silent sorrow unfelt by many

weighs heavy on no one’s shoulders.

Heaters rumble into existence

“I turn it down to save on gas.”

The taps freeze under.

Doors open. Footsteps on stairs.

Doors close, a slam. 

It is a large house, and the cold is deafening.

Melissa Chew