I had been imagining a house
detached
coming off the hinges
of itself.
Inside where the people
are very beautiful
and they are
not speaking.
Their tongues have all been broken
by the jaws of much
too much
to say.
And there in quiet makeshift rooms,
the halls of footsteps grinding on stairs,
indecision,
medication,
fear of spiders and
wire hooks,
in the cold chambers of their slender shadow hearts,
black birds are singing human words
we would recognize as symbols.
Silent are these people
in their lovely cut out houses,
trapped together
falling apart.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 