All day the rain, listening to it and his heart and the ancestors as they arrive, make tea, whisper over papers, knock down walls. A merry chaos when Lawrence opens his grey eyes, seeing only what was there last night: the dark oak floor, sea of books and clothes, table of bottles, glasses, candles. He rises in the rainlight and hunts for his clothes, the socks the gentry hid. Fancy a little breakfast? he asks, stumbling to my dreary wall of a kitchen: bread, port wine jam. The attic turns twice the size and fills with shadows. I clear the table, and in the centre, place a bowl of blood, gold, rose apples. My mouth is too small, my jaw cracks. The spell may break. I tear the toast. Lawrence, look at the rain; divine! I push the plate away, away, for I am half light, between worlds. Silver threads across the ceilings of new rooms, ancestors applaud for the gentry dancing on tightropes to Debussy.
Ariel Dawn [photo credit: Sara Hembree] lives in Victoria, British Columbia with her son and daughter. She spends her time writing, reading, studying Tarot, and working on her first collection of prose poems. Recent work appears in Guest, Train, and Litro.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan