Up steep hollow stairs to the sticky green shag
and moaning oak floor
Recessing from voices into the creamy yellow haze
where sheer cotton flags have beaten listlessly against the heavy pained glass
since the beginning of antiquity. In a whisper—
to play
to play
to play

The same stairs aren’t so steep
And the moaning oak now weeps more
Under the watchful eyes of Grandma’s savior
we dress in heavy moods
Mama’s perfume and Daddy’s gold watch
The tinkling sounds of ancient slat metal blinds and
the image of a leaden-white wooden crib—
more significant today than usual.
We all descend at some time—
to mourn
to mourn
to mourn

Up only once more,
Recessing to voices
Fire dry soundlessness and
Shrouded light—
Sepia-toned memories burning themselves in
Reflected from a mirror
we have long since outgrown
Farewell to what we knew
and affection towards what we
might have
We shed the rough milkweed skin
and go down once again—
to live on
and on
and on