THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS

find me at the bottom of the stairs,

of the old house.

the house on no street, with no neighbors.

come visit me where nowhere lies.

find me bewaiting the chill of the floorboards

& the stares of the ivory statues.

i am told that is what i shall become.

let me sit with hemingway in my arms,

and the shadows of past in my hands.

find me in the corner of the room,

in which my jury cowers in a small box.

it understands the old house, it has been here longer.

soon the house shall turn colder, and the stairs will worry of the chill.

it is frightful here, for no one knows who shall greet us today.

perhaps someone good, perhaps someone villainous.

they always join me in the old house.

and when they leave,

it is lonesome in the silence.

it should be no man’s fate,

and the old house makes it worse.

i’ve become close friends with the roses in the vase,

they wither on the table, sometimes i ask them questions.

i ask when we will leave,

they say nothing.

i ask them who has left me here,

they say nothing.

shall i become like the roses? and whither away?

with nothing left, and nothing near.

speak to me, speak to me dear one.

tell me the truth.

for i would rather live in lucifer’s wrath,

but he does not step in this room.

instead,

you will find him at the bottom of the stairs.

By Chiara di Lorenzo-Graham