Narrative Without People
By Hilda Raz
The soaked books lip open in piles.
The shelves stoop, slough paint.
The doors, their locks sprung, hinge air
open to weather, gulp rain.
Something here enters the trees.
If we believe in ghosts, white pearl
shadows the batten and boards. Rust
runs on the shelves. The sounds on air
wail, a nail in the thumb. Stickers
underfoot poke holes.
In rafters, wings or the suggestion of wings
rend air, whoosh of rubbish, burnt rubber
hooks for skeleton elbows. Ash,
dry sift through moist fingers
in a room where everything's mold.
Copyright Credit: Hilda Raz. "Narrative Without People" from Divine Honors copyright © 1997 by Hilda Raz and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.
Source: Divine Honors (Wesleyan University Press, 1997)