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A House of Mourning

Steven Pelcman

My house is still, its last gasp
of life is the emptiness
of sunlight swallowing it

whole to keep the dark figures
lurking at bay so there is enough
time to ask forgiveness of the dead.

The mirrors wear sheets to keep
the reflections it cannot see
of the memories disguised

in the brown spots and the
hairline receding, the body
widening and bloated to become

the beast it had always been afraid of;
that aging, stumbling monster
of pain cloaked in the shadows

of time that resistance cannot
alter its outcome or betray the scars
that have shaped a lifetime.

Truth is alone in its stiffness
unyielding and unaware
of the differences

yet I can imagine the cold table,
the sliding movement of flesh
imperfect inching towards

the flames in an airconditioned room
with the blowing air and turbo sounds
as if the chatter of the crying.

I will remember you.
It is all I know,
no matter who you are.

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