IN THE FIFTH HOUSE OF WINTER, Gwendolyn White-Kater

THE FIFTH HOUSE OF WINTER
by Gwendolyn White-Kater

I peer between four broken shades.
43 degrees seeping with the cattle and hay.
Crumbles of brick and the stuffing spit
from his mattress left in the stiff grey grass.
BB gun holes in posters of bikinis on jokers
And canisters of tin can trinkets and a gallon milk container.

I click my tongue to the swing of bootlaces,
And pick thorns and burs from my belt loops and sleeves
The corner beyond which I cannot see.
Proceed.

The door began aching upon my approaching
Slamming in an awkward faced tantrum
The winds turned to me with a cynical whisper,
assuring its tantrum, only a whimper.
Thus then I thought, my vertebras, his hinges,
and spoke through the doorway,
“touché”.

In the flower-pot kitchen
a small birds rib cage remained
who’s feathers still static the slit window screen
accompanied there by a butterfly wing.
Cellars and storm shelters of marmalade jars and unopened letters.
A reef of rusted barbed wire choking on the fence post
The molded blue books sigh and gesture to their elders
sitting bare as bone, as the ear of corn
aside the gravel and cold of this needle point road.
The coal grit paste of wet-ash is my photograph
As is the brimming grin of these child-like antics.

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