Storm by Ione Citrin
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Portrait of My
Mother as a House
by C. L. Bledsoe
The
body is a house of many windows:
there we all sit, showing
ourselves and crying
on the passers-by to come and
love us.
– Robert Louis
Stevenson
Say the clouds are miseries, drifting
across the blue void of the sky’s mind
above me, older than they seem.
Say the winds are memories, pushing
clouds, the fluff of despair that
manages
to come between the sun and the
ground
and therefore darken life.
Say the birds are wants, their wings flapping
out wind, generating paths no one
remembers they’ve built.
Say the power lines are needs, supporting
the birds, but thinking the birds
are keeping
them up.
Say the ground is habit, holding
the power lines up,
because it doesn’t know anything
else to do.
Say these windows are eyes, looking
lest their light fade, darken
and crack, so that all who pass
are driven to misery, shed their
flesh
and jump into the sky to drift.
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