Sloan Asakura
In Our House
i collect ghosts–
. occupy fractions of their space in return for
. warmth
any kind
. incense burns each mourning
. the air smells of black coffee mixed with jasmine ash
. koa wood box and the photos watching me from the altar
. stacked winter coats hung, never worn, crowd the hallway
. impossible to avoid calamity with wool with
. plastic market bags weighing white on your fingers
maybe those tombstone buildings never left my mind
. their mouths agape lining the streets of Greece
. ancient
still mortal
. like bones cracking through fire
. i fear the same fate for us– dead amongst the living
. i mourn before the burning
. cry over bodies only sleeping
. the fear shakes me awake like a poltergeist beneath the bed
. my bones rattle with “what if i’m not here?” and “who will i be then,
.. when he’s gone?”
but i wake each morning still
. fill the coffee pot and know he will say “too strong”
. hold the moment
like a secret
. in my sun-weathered palms
. and the ghosts drape about my shoulders
. my ancestral beads, each stone a life before mine
. and we cry together over the peeling floral wallpaper
. over the emerald green carpet with the netting peering through
. wipe the tears off the table before he descends the stairs and says,
. “coffee?”
About the writer:
Sloan Asakura is a poet and memoirist originally from Los Angeles, now braving the Pacific Northwest. They have been previously published in Jeopardy Magazine, Rigorous, The Mantle, and Rogue Agent. Asakura is a founder and editor of MAWTH. In their free time, they can be found cooking comfort food, gardening, and contemplating persimmons.
Image: Morning Fog by George Grie (1962- ). Oil on canvas. No size specified. By 2006. By free license.
