This entry is part 12 of 37 in the series Bridge to Nowhere: poems at mid-life


Dance, house.
White as a corpse in moonlight,
in sunlight white as a small hill of salt.
Dance in your wig of rain streaming from the eaves.
We who pass through you, who sleep
under your asphalt-shingled hat
are little more than ghosts.
The earth might move or it might not,
but thunder comes knocking almost every day in the summer.
How long can you sit while the moon circles like a madman
& flowers fade?
You don’t have forever, that sterile seed.
Somewhere on the other side of the world,
with nothing but water beneath it,
a white sail rocks.

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0 Replies to “Lullaby”

  1. Hi all, thanks for liking this! For once I kind of like it myself, too. I’m just not sure it’s really a lullaby. I’m thinking it might be some kind of spell or incantation instead.

  2. This reminds me of Mary Oliver’s poem about her house – can’t think of the title – but there’s something so personal, comforting, and familiar about even that word (house) that’s universal. I like how the people haunt the house in this one – although the house is ghost-like as well.

    1. Hmm, if it’s by Mary Oliver, I’ve probably read it. An unconscious influence, perhaps! Let me know if you think of the title. At any rate, glad you liked my take.

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