enough soul and a home
after francine j harris
Every soul deserves a good arm
chair. and a grave. The soul says,
no more cell in my living room.
in my grave. There's a christmas tree
still up in the corner, in May, garlanded
with teeth. and souls.
Take it down, says the cell. to the grave.
I stopped listening to the cell. Carved
off my ears with a wooden spoon,
put them in a soup
for the soul. for the home.
No one eats in this grave.
What a kitchen it is, the way these souls
are made up of cells. in the hallway
a dirt-garland shovel falls. echoes
in its cells. Rotting flowers
for the souls, and in the bedroom
souls lined like soldiers on the dump
of a bed. I can't hear them any more
in our home. After all, there's enough windows
here to open every soul. This hissing
and thump are the cells. are the sounds
of cells who can't let go. are the song
I cannot hear. Is it finished? says the cell.
says the soul. as it loses another hand
in the sink. in the cell. Don't let go.
We'll home together soon. We'll all
home our souls good for good.