The Ever-Drowning
In the cellar
the rotting wood
spawns mushrooms
in the darkness
her lungs mew
like sacks of blind kittens
even while she sleeps
on the spread of hay and damp
with her boots unlaced
her bodice unbuttoned
her back wedged
where the cold
stone walls
meet and meet
She looked all right
easy enough
to feed on the three dollars a week
the township pays
to house the indigent
nubile, but homely
so the husband wouldn’t bother
with her
fingers, long and nimble
for kitchen work
but her spirit proved too feral for the home
When she wakes
they will have slipped
another bushel of potatoes
into the cellar
for her knife to peel
and locked the door again
on her blind incantations
on the kittens
everywhere
blossoming calico
Upstairs
they hear
the ghosts of the drowning
(An Elastic State of Mind. D.L.D.’s Autobiography in Poems. Wigestrand forlag 2012)
For a bit more information about D.L.D.:
Thank you for taking the time to read/listen. If you have any comments, I would love to read them.
I hope you have a great week!
Warmly,
Ren Powell’s Acts of a Recovering Drama Queen
Writing against Melodrama by Engaging with the Natural World
Give some love. It only takes a little ❤️.
Not a pleasant image. A woman in a musty, moldy basement peeling potatoes…
Very little - if any - of her observations were pleasant.