Erasing The Seasons
by Enzo S. Surin
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There are no mirrors in this house.
The ceiling hangs low above our heads,
graying the sun with the passing days.
The bread here sticks to my teeth
and small particles of crushed insects
cling to the walls.
I hate silencing the live things in the house
and am forced to bury my thoughts
in unfamiliar corners.
Perhaps in some small way
I am free to wander
through the utterance of my thoughts
and erase the body of seasons
I've endured in this house
where love assimilates in silence
then tossed like nails in unsteady hands.
Sometimes I take off and return
and step into a room I've known
and imagine I am the air my father breathes,
the unexpected pocket of truth
leaking into his lungs like lighter fluid.
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