(The living room seemed to be where

no living ever actually occurred.

– Alice Sebold)


Voices were kept in domestic quiet
Until the last decade claimed three.

Father: someone pushed his chair

In a town’s grievance center.

He fell face first, lips now cleft

Got orphaned by pipe and cigar.
Brother and mother: civilians in red

Plated van pelted our home with stones,

Destroying jalousies, music players,

Vases, kitchenware, and later them,

Scaring what else the house kept.
Ripening sentiments gave way

To their own gradual wastage.

Postponing their appointed time required

My attempts of the repair man’s and stone

And glass cutter’s excellent finish.
To unload keepsakes needed more than

Just any human skill, craft or trick.

Better borrow the kitten’s purr or pigeon’s coo,

Maybe the parakeet’s mimicry–-

They can temper compelling memories.
Their seeking for lost years–-like echoes

In search of geckos–-is reiterative as day:

Father’s smoke invading the nostrils;

Brother’s march songs advancing; scents

From mother’s trumpet flowers pervading;
Her teakettle’s whistling now my own.