Spring 2012 - THE POTOMAC

  Bruce McRae

You mean the house inside the house.
You mean the mythmaker's lodgings,
with its many doors and million windows.

Which is the sea under the mountains
or a thirteen billion year old light ray.
Which is everywhere, like ancient snow.

Oh, but why didn't you say so?
You mean the house next door to the nothingness,
across the road from the flaming hospital,
by the exploding dancehall.

Where the carbon blobs happily dwell
and midnight barks like a dog.
Where the spectral sailors are knocking.

The house made of bones being broken.
The house of minds snapping.
The house where the World used to live,
until Tragedy stopped by for a while,
until Time spat out its toothpick.

I remember the blinds in the kitchen coming down hard.
Like a fist on a table
or satellite crashing.
I remember there were walls in the cellar
and an angry lightbulb on all night.
With vast continents
hidden under its floorboards,
Mr. and Mrs. Chemical, long dead now,
rearranging the grassblades,
old toys still in the yard,
bejeweled in the glistening rain,
the roadway passing
filled with the children's lost voices:
like a skip-rope-rhyme
in my feverish mind.

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