In this happy house
A vacant flower pot sits
On the table above
My mother’s portrait.
I reap her fallen painting
And the cornstarch
From the pantry
With the big oak doors
That has one single light.
We use it to see
Death in the window
And the flowers
That pop like
G u n s h o t s,
Red and more red.
A crack thunders outside
And the snow patches over.
The clouds often rain ash
Onto children
As they scream outside in the sun
Hiding from a missile
That forms into a shadow
Casting down with a distinct
Boom.
This vase is like
My old teddy bear
For it is delicate
Under my fingers’ light touch
As they streak the blue
And yellow dahlias that live and then
Take a final breath,
That shrivel in the dark.
I remind myself
That this is a happy house,
A place where I should be,
Where I’ll perish
Among the rubble.
