Charismatic Deliverance

I could have sworn this was a cavewith thin gray branches at the opening,a perfect ellipse. No one’s home but home.No whistle over the opening. A man emptieshis lungs entirely, so he can sing, so we can sing.He looks down at the ground. I look at the caveand then up at a hawk who left his streetlightto be here for this occasion of our murmuringin the presence of animals.

I wish things were different, that the doorwayhad no door, crème paint flaking from fifty yearsof painting and a smell like new paint, soft from heat,afternoon sun, flakes a golden white color, and behind mea breeze. I know there were two of us here, and I don’t knowwhere the other is. I can’t see the room. Maybe it’s not a roomanymore. Maybe it’s someone’s idea: staircase in the closet,seven layers of wallpaper and all of them showing.

The cat who died is still mewling by the bathtub,and I didn’t know her in life. Half a deer is in two tubsin the refrigerator. One leg is shoving out of a tub,like a peony, hoof in bloom.

Light brown, the trees closest to me have succumbedto the cold, their leaves are around my feet,some I can hear hitting the train in the windin little slaps, little slaps of water againstmy cheeks. I am so high in the mountainsthat the mountains are not mountains,and sleep is in my chest, making its wayto my throat, the bearer of good news.

A shell’s spirit shares a sound.The ocean in this case. So, not so empty.Not an abandoned house. The bed is ready.The fire is ready.

We have lived here; and we have lived here.