How I loved each bare floor, each naked wall, the shadows on newly empty halls. By day, my head humming to itself of dreams, I cleaned and scrubbed to make life new; dislodging from the corner, the old moths and cicadas pinned to the screen, the carcasses of grasshoppers dangling from beams, and each windowsill’s clutter of dried beetles and dead bees. But, through each opening, each closing door, the old life returns on six legs, or spins a musty web as it roosts over a poison pot, or descends from above to drink blood in. This is how it happens: the settling in—the press of wilderness returns to carved-out space, to skin. Copyright © 2014 by Jenny Factor. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment