Mireya del Rosario
Poem starting with the first sentence of “Mother of Wood” by Tiana Nobile
Our Battered Walls are Caving In
When did you become a house? Splinters
poke my eyelids when I look too closely
at what we’ve built. Architectural ruin:
damp and molding, pillars leaning, will you
crumble with me in the night? I am
lost in your attic with all these broken
lightbulbs I keep finding on your floors.
When fear grips me I crawl into your air vents
to sync our breaths, but the dust makes me sick.
I am making you sick. Wallpaper peeling, your
edges curling in my effort to keep warm. I split
lips on cracked mugs but I will remain here.
Every morning I try to fix the blinds;
each evening I burn away our candle supply.