by
Andrew Chapman
Where
I’m from is a poisoned place.
Walls
of lead-chalk and asbestos
bones.
The basement brims wickedness.
Feel
the doorknob: it’s fever-warm.
Once
dusk falls, huddle close, hear
new
dangers, what becomes of
young
girls who open doors for
handsome
men in collared shirts.
Grandma
knows, this was her—
years
ago in late October, the fields
fresh
mown when he married her,
when
he carried her here, the yellow house.
He
wore white with a paper hat, drove
diesel
trucks, drank black lacquer.
Enamel-coated
his guts but never died
just
mouldered, seeped into floorboards.
She
sighs, says, “Enough of yesterday’s blues.”
Now’s
the time to spread sleeping bags
on
carpet stains still smelling of his leather
turpentine.
In the pitchblack, if we can
hold
our breath, we’ll hear the cheap
piano
play, faint but faithful, those
half-decent
drinking songs he taught it
In
the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.
About
the poet: Andrew Chapman lives in Lafayette, Ind.