Maria P. Vassileva

underwater they are terribly

farsighted, your body blurs







as you approach. their bodies

are set elsewhere. heavy







chandeliers sinking

with chains braided by wax,







tempting you to reach into

their folds and search them







for whatever you threw

into the murky sea,







see if they would spill out

or harden like shells.







you peel one, look for the heart,

highly organized water,







it is shaking. you find a stone,

apply pressure, watch it shatter.

They tell the phone not to worry,



they lock up the doors.



Then, they tape mouth of the mailbox shut,



thinking: who would write? There is nothing



to write home about.



The address is hard to remember.



 



On weekends, they take walks.



It helps them



stay young, they say, and they forget



what they meant, where they were.



The house breathes out,



the window rests its head 



against the mountain



they are climbing, opens up, swallows.  



The nearby church rings its bells for dinner 



and they eat bread on a bench.  



 



She cooks by a dictionary.



He watches television, grows a beard like a newspaper pile,



he speaks very little. He throws the leftover pages



at the cat. It walks away, its steps



are stamps on the carpet.



 



They go to sleep still dressed and with the radio on.



It plays sad songs, then good ones,



then the news, then it listens



to the raucous laughter of late guests coming in,



sitting on the upturned chairs by the table.



 



After they leave, the window is unhinged 



and the mountain



can leap out again.