Dead Leaves

Dead Leaves

Dead Leaves 2763 1414 Erin Emily Ann Vance

After Remedios Varo

If I do not tell you
of the lichen growing
on the living room floor
will you feel it on the soles of your feet?

What of the yellowed teeth
blowing in from the parlour,
can you taste them?

If I do not tell you
of the bees swarming
and the wax dripping from the ceiling
will you notice the new thickness
in the air?

I should tell you
that the yarn in your hands
was spun from my capillaries,

I should tell you
that the chimney is blocked
and I cannot go outside
to hire someone to clean it.

I should tell you that I wove your hair
into handmade paper
cut it into perfect squares
and folded swans
while you slept.

You sit prone in your wedding gown,
the bones of our house
spit up around you.

You will burn when you throw your
knitting into the fire
and it leaps back out at you
because I never told you
the chimney needed to be cleaned.

You will die, slowly, in our house
and I will dance in the shadows
and toss paper cranes at your blank face
until you, too, come home.

[norebro_text]Header Photograph © Sarah Huels.[/norebro_text]
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