Poetry on The Feminista
Glass House in November
An Invocation of What I Refuse to Name
I
have forgotten
how soft breath sounds
against the walls —
empty rooms
wait with
a mouth
half-open, not asking, not
expecting a voice.
The morning brings
a sharp light
like bone cut fresh
through the soft slip
of dawn —
it shoves against the skin,
pulls color up like bruises,
like ink that bleeds
through paper.
No one asked,
but I am here anyway —
an echo, mostly,
the shadow of a woman
who used to fit
inside these walls,
a relic or a doll
propped in corners,
collecting dust
on the porcelain face
of my own reflection.
I watch the windowpane
sweat beads of rain —
they crawl down
like seconds, minutes,
their rhythm a pulse
I can’t shake loose,
can’t forget or deny.
Outside, the trees lean,
their roots buckle like knuckles
gripping the soil,
fingers of earth
clutching at nothing,
or maybe at me,
the weight I leave
on every floorboard.
This house —
it remembers too much.
It holds things
I wanted to leave behind:
the ache that knits
its thread through my bones,
a room I won’t enter,
a song that hums in the eaves
without permission.
Its secrets
stick like sap,
a slow, sweet rot
that seeps from under
closed doors.
Somewhere, the kettle sings,
and I let it wail,
a banshee in the kitchen.
Its steam coils like hair
against the cold air,
drifts until it fades,
evaporates, leaving only
the faintest scent,
the ghost of heat.
I am all breath and bones,
and I gather myself
by inches, pieces —
a mosaic fractured
and almost forgotten.
There is a corner,
a room
that smells like oranges,
the sharpness of peel
split under thumbs —
there, I pretend
the past sits
quiet and calm,
a well-loved coat
hung and folded,
not a ghost,
not a hand
pressed to my throat.
Tell me how
to carve a space
inside myself,
somewhere that doesn’t echo,
doesn’t cave
under the weight of this —
to be made of flesh
that feels
like glass,
a body too brittle
for rooms that hold
so much.
At dusk, the light fades,
its colors bleed,
streak like lipstick
smeared in haste,
and I watch as shadows
stretch their fingers
over the walls,
climbing up
like ivy or vines
or fingers
that find their way
to my neck.
I am small here,
smaller than I should be,
and each night I fold,
press myself into edges,
corners, sharp angles
that prick at the skin
until I remember
how to be solid,
how to stay whole.
No one taught me
how to live
with the weight
of my own history,
the quiet burden
of being known
by a house that remembers
better than I do —
every creak, every sigh
etched in floors
that settle,
that whisper
as I pass.
I pull the drapes,
watch the room dim
until all that’s left
is a smear of shadow,
the faint suggestion
of a shape in the dark,
something that breathes
but only barely,
only when it must.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise,
and I will feel its heat
slide over the window,
pressing a palm
against the glass.
And I, I will wait,
silent as the walls,
until I am nothing more
than breath,
than dust,
than light.
I’m Ani Eldritch, Senior Editor of The Feminista. If you identify as a woman, come, write for us! If you’re interested, here are the submission guidelines. And, of course, thank you for reading.
