It's Still Life

Whichever Way It Blows

I share this house
with a man with a bad back,

and a roof verge of crumbling cement
that drinks water and leaks like a drunk

as the wind
tongues at the roof tiles.

The man leaves doors open,
dried leaves like giddy spooks flit across the floor,

and mosquitoes, guiltlessly
hunt me at night.

Flies in the kitchen, dead and
dying with guttural-whining wings,

they gather on the sills,
eyes pinched shut with secrets
on their dried troll-like faces.

But, at death we do all part,
and I love this man with his bad back,

this house with its leaks
and hysterical pipes,

and old trees swaying at the end of the garden
that are a damned hazard
when a northeast wind blows.

And then there’s me, an earthy woman who’s
happy and lucky, acidic at times,

and who occasionally
needs a whiff of ammonia
to remain dramatic.