MATINA L. STAMATAKIS
EMPTY HOUSE
These windows are bare virgins, Thea. Look how they mock
us without curtains--they’re casings of our former selves,
rattle-bones broken in by frequent wind gusts.
Is this what broke us? the torrent blow
of gusts, cheek to cheek. Is this what defeated us, Thea?
Do not speak, just nod.
We’ve neglected the days and now they’re vacant,
full of wondering.
Wondering about abstract paintings we bought
but never understood: the night’s ascent of white
encysting day into a belly of quicksand, hip pockets,
satin sheets we clung to like rabid beasts--
These Dahlian dreamscapes have morphed
us into melted clocks, twisted lovers.
And belongings, a world of threadbare wings
each longing to be made whole again:
a suitcase, two postcards from Cochin, Paris,
a box of Godiva chocolates with each center
carefully bitten out--
and you sat like Lady Day admiring
the intricate hollows of a grand piano.
How your gardenias radiated our window
adjacent the clock, near our phorograph
on the mantle which held precious
a past with nostalgic remembrance.
I would have kissed your fingers to remember
little, skeletal stems devoid of flowers,
but in your hair they rested
immovable, frozen--
grasping naked strands of our love.