Elizabeth Jordan Heinbuch
Going Home - Poem by Elizabeth Jordan Heinbuch
There is a place i see in my dreams
and i only dream to see this scene
to immerse myself in uncertainty
and the calm clarity
i find in it's confusion
I find peace in my delusions.
And all around for miles is only a vacancy
which proves to be quite comforting
in the solemn silence and solace
An old house stands on a hill
Its shattered windows
glaring green eyes
which overlook us as we die
It's structure streaks shadows
across tall stalks of grain
as the amber wheat
against the red-hued
An old tree
stands strangled and diseased
supporting a singing tire swing
w/ it's noose all loose
every strand breaking singularly
as it swayed
I waited for it to break
in one moment- one eternity-
but it never came-
So i walked away.
I approached the front porch
not so sure of what i was looking for
and not quite sure of what i'd found
On the splintered cement ground
were clay terra cotta pots
filled with ferns begun to rot,
the cold soil- a layer of permafrost.
In it's depths
the roots at rest
become a feast for nocturnal things
as writhing worms begin to feed.
Next to there,
a squeaking rocking chai
cracked but standing,
The door stood wide open
beyond crumbling crooked steps
entreating an entrance,
holding my breath.
And inside lingers scents
of mold and oldness,
dust and damp decay.
In the foyer
old battered boots still stand
bitten by moths and filled with sand
in a semi straight line
where spiders spin webs of fine silver twine.
Couches are cluttered
facing each other
in dusted linen sheets
while a white covered mirror
helps me see clearer in sleep.
A tiny table is set for 2
in the quaint green dining room
2 candles w/o wicks are unable to be lit
but wax pours and stains the tablecloth
where our 2 settings are.
Our 2 stark-white plate
still cluttered w/ what we hadn't ate
but now it's far too late.
Rings left around wine glasses
still partially full-
fermented yet still cold.
Creasesin our chairs from where we sat
in longing stares and silences
I wish now i could go back.
The lonely words we'd exchanged
still echo, lingering on lovely lips
Gone now- to only miss.
In the kitchen
shards of glass scattered on the floor
and blood stains from before.
Growing on the ground-
also rotten now.
The silent still-hum of the refrigeorator
draws me so much closer
but the stench shoves me away.
On a plate,
A holiday platter,
a turkey carcas from a X-mas dinner-
still being eaten.
In cabinets: contamination
and outdated cans
unopened and untouched by the hand.
Insects infest and injest
An old wooden staircase
leans against the 2nd story
for some supporting
creaking as i climb,
rails thickly covered in dust and in grime.
Coming to the colorless hall
7 windows line the wall.
the first door stands ajar
but inside it is empty-
only filled with broken memories.
Yet in the corner is a ragdoll
tattered and torn
I think that i remember her from before.
Her hair is yellowed yarn
and her eyes blue-black buttons
her dress is a mess
and smells of mildews and musks
But still we carry her on with us.
the next door is locked
yet we know all that's inside
It is exactly the way we left it
before we died.
Down the hall a little further
the room of a mother and father
w/ the bed unmade in silken sheets
fragments of drywall underneath.
A single ray of sun rests upon the bed
where a murdered mother laid down her head,
strands of light brown hair can still be found there
In the indentation of her pillow.
Late, become a widow.
I can imagine her delicate frame
and feminine form
on the mattress where she laid
still in her cinnibar braids.
Her tensed lips
poised into a kiss
and poisoned with a last goodbye
where she sang us a lullaby
and we both fell asleep
into this eternal dream.
And down the hall
the last room
is the broken bathroom
where our mistakes were erased.
The frozen porcelain tile
is craked and fragmented
formerly white pigmented
but now is brown and grey.
The pedestal sink
rusted and fractured
drained dry and clogged w/ hair
I remember once
mother's wedding ring had fallen down there.
the bathtub attatched to the wall
still filled w/ water in the stained showestall
and in that reflection i see not my face
but only remembrances of what i cannot erase.
Through an open door
poured bright golden sunlight
filtered through the shifting shadows of the screen
Out onto the porch
the palms of my feet.
Over the balcony draped bathingsuits
of previous use
stiffly sitting still
and an old stench which makes me ill.
And in the distance
a blaring blue creek
cold and glistening
where we were put to sleep.
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