The house is endless only in its emptiness, so vast

there seemed trapped the wind itself. And what this woman wants


appears in necklaces and the oven light, in rain strokes

against the window pane.


Or does it manifest in the fire’s dying,

the dark promise behind curtains?


In the corridors, she’s planted seasons: from doorstep

to stairwell a frost sutures the carpet.


Spring blossoms staircase to bedroom. She tends the tulips

as they ease apart floorboards. In the bathroom’s autumn,


an apple tree drops abundance

into the tub, leaves the porcelain reddened, bruised.


A desert swells its sands across the kitchen counters.

The dishes dusted. Tawny waves against chair legs.


She steps through, leaving

shallow shadows behind her. Locusts in the bookshelf offer


a hollow city of noise, the choir mourning

like a solemn march, like the funeral that it was.


photo credit: Vmenkov via Wikipedia Commons

About the author

Megan J. Arlett was born in the UK, grew up in Spain, and now lives in Texas where she is pursuing her PhD. She is an editor at the Plath Poetry Project and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New British and Irish Poets, Ninth Letter, Passages North, Third Coast, and elsewhere.

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