Underbelly

But could a dream send up through onion fumes

Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes

And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,

Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in,

Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,

Anticipate a message, let it begin?

— “kitchenette building”, Gwendolyn Brooks

When Number Five gets sick,

her flock stirs up a broth to quicken her spirit,

feeding her spoonsful of prayer, unceasing.

Day after day, I am a lone bay leaf in a crock-pot,

soaking in what remains winter’s remedy.

I labour to stay afloat as buoyant voices rise

above me, one final cry

spilling into my ears as I sink.

The building teeters as it laments the loss,

but this bleary-eyed relic never stays empty for long.

With rehearsed steps

and measured breaths,

we stalk the catacombs

outstretched hands skate

across the taut backs of these rooms.

We’ve been living without the fat and heat

Here, we only suck on flesh and seeds.

A week later, we have new neighbours.

The man is bovine. All brawn and baritone,

wearing the hide of every animal.

The woman, The Wrangler, is a fine hairpin,

taming and securing every last strand.

Night after night, I wrestle with meat and bone,

caught between stubborn joints and unyielding marrow.

The building heaves,

coughs up the dregs of an unholy matrimony,

but this bleary-eyed relic never stays empty for long.

With rehearsed steps

and measured breaths,

we stalk the catacombs

outstretched hands skate

across the taut backs of these rooms.

We’ve been living without the fat and heat

Here, we only suck on flesh and seeds.