When you unearth a corpse and it’s still fresh, and you see it writhing
with maggots and larvae and nymphs moments from exploding into flies
remember: this is their home, and you’re as much a disturbance to them
as they are to you. Imagine the revulsion of a salesman stepping into your home
unexpectedly, on a day you decided, fuck it, I’m not picking up dishes
or doing laundry, or vacuuming or cleaning up after anyone but myself today.
That salesman would probably wear the same expression on their face
as you are wearing now, spade in hand, peering into the dark of fresh earth
pots of peonies and roses waiting to be dropped in, completely forgotten
the unexpected flash of white knobbed fingers, a deflated eyelid,
all those unanswered phone calls explained.
The first few hours after I get there, all I watch is porn
not for me, but for any lingering ghosts in the room.
I barely watch the ass-filled screen, instead
busy myself with sweeping out the cabin
rearranging furniture so I can work
pour myself a drink
Next, I put on some old bluegrass
to go with the candle on the desk
something that doesn’t drown out the thunderstorm
fills just a single corner of the room.
I figures the ghosts in here
have been left alone long enough
that they deserve some good music, some good company
they should be able to see what people do in the world outside the door
because it can’t be all just me, sitting at this desk,
drinking and
wearing way too many clothes.
Closing Off the Dead Tenant’s Space
We push all the furniture up against the walls
to make room for the ghost, remove
anything fragile or pretty to keep it from being destroyed.
We carefully tape cardboard over the windowpanes
to prevent broken glass from falling out onto the sidewalk below
where it might hurt someone who just doesn’t understand
what’s going on here.
When we’re done, we close the door on the room
carefully tape up the cracks around the frame
seal it tight. Later, we’ll block the door entirely
close up the space with drywall or bricks
or just cover it with layers of newspaper and paste,
depends on the time we have available
No women are allowed on Mount Anthos in Greece.
It’s just a place for men, and male chickens, and male dogs
eggs and dairy have to be brought in from the village below
because not even cows are allowed near the monastery.
You know the people down in the village make fun of those monks
and their pretense at celibacy
and their fear of women
and it goes without saying that those dogs up there
are busy humping one another.
They don’t care that there aren’t any bitches up there,
Neither do the monks.
The school bus rumbles by and the dog begins wagging her tail.
She has so many memories of waiting at the bus stop
for my children, and the neighbours’ children, to pour out of the open doors
hands reached out to pet and hug, high-pitched voices chattering in delight
but the bus doesn’t stop here anymore.
She and I both watch the bus stumble down the street, turn the corner
disappear, without dropping off a single happy, noisy child
leaving us sad and empty. “It’s okay,” I say out loud, pretend it’s for the dog
tug her leash and head back to the house, it’s time to start the day.
I imagine there are greater things waiting for me
than getting to hear about the first day of school
some emergency project that needs my help right now,
that there are things more important than being a shoulder to cry on,
that my day doesn’t revolve around signing permission slips
volunteering for field trips, I have better things to do with my day now.
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