|
{the abandoned} aleah sato They resurrect the walls by whispering strange spells. They wash the basin; in it, clothes set out for Sunday have paled. It is not enough to hope for water; In a dry season, death opens its chasm. When all feels lost to indemnity, they move hands over books, hoping some lines, the forgotten they adored, would offer solace. They fade like gossamer - moth wings hold more color than the skin of these lovers. The once golden strands of her hair now chime with their brittle spines. No light keeps company; no curtain opens to a knocking door. They prop the furniture, crack kindling for the missing hearth. They wait for the sons and daughters to come home. They wait. |
