Erasing The Seasons
by Enzo S. Surin

    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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