Left alone, closed in the great brick belly of
the house,
I walk around turning out the lights;
I quench the windows,
making the house blink at the street.

Noises fill up the empty space like
saltwater inhaled through my nose,
penetrating, suffocating sounds-
the radiator must be full of hummingbirds,
the clocks march in stumbling off-synchrony like soldiers
sent to the front line without a
gun.

There is a rasp from the stove,
like my father running his leather hand
over his stubbled chin.

Shadows lie like house pets in their corners,
they sigh and whisper at each other but
I am restless;

so I revel in my anonymity
and dance
naked and lewd for my mirror,
my hair sprawled across the planes of my bare back,
singing the shadows from the house.

I remind myself that I am still alive,
my skin still breathes,
my blood has not turned hard,
I am not filled with coal.

The house will not drown me in
sloppy silence,
not today.