by Christos Polydorou
Houses are built upon the graves of the dead.
She, a faithful wife,
swam like a mermaid against the ceilings,
her whalebone stays. Her house seduced her
in this way.
She cleaned, then rested in a state of stupor,
transfixing on metaphysical states. Supernatural
shapes break in the
rooms we make for our
Dead, or alive, then, and now.
Holy how, holy is the how.
The melodrama of a semi-sensed ghost.
Of a memorable husband not set free.
The journey birds make whilst becoming birds.
There are ecstatic mornings when she comes
down off the ceiling of her husband’s – and now her’s – house,
only to don a spider gown, for like any of us,
she must go into town,
to purchase cake. She makes little to none
eye contact with anyone,
regarding the lips and noses
of the mid May English roses.
The petals of the roses are carmine yellow with pink lips.