| Donald R. Anderson |
| In Bitter Spirits |
Upon the moon he flies,
in translucent spines that detect
that chill on the back of your hand.
There, in the cool pit of your stomach,
he grows, gnawing at you.
He heard your footsteps.
He knows you now own the house.
He knows that you listen to Led Zeppelin.
In that space behind the stairs,
he curls up on his knees,
vapor and spice and everything ice.
The air smells of nutmeg,
old books, dust, wheat.
And the realtor will come,
and you will be glad to be rid of the home,
for it was his to begin with.
He will sleep on the sheets
on the sofa, on the rocking chair,
on the furniture,
dusty, cobwebbed,
until the boards on the windows
give way to windy storms and children’s rocks
and to the restless nature in his opulent
luxuriant relinquishing mansion
that he wanted all for himself.
in translucent spines that detect
that chill on the back of your hand.
There, in the cool pit of your stomach,
he grows, gnawing at you.
He heard your footsteps.
He knows you now own the house.
He knows that you listen to Led Zeppelin.
In that space behind the stairs,
he curls up on his knees,
vapor and spice and everything ice.
The air smells of nutmeg,
old books, dust, wheat.
And the realtor will come,
and you will be glad to be rid of the home,
for it was his to begin with.
He will sleep on the sheets
on the sofa, on the rocking chair,
on the furniture,
dusty, cobwebbed,
until the boards on the windows
give way to windy storms and children’s rocks
and to the restless nature in his opulent
luxuriant relinquishing mansion
that he wanted all for himself.
