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Poetry By
  Chelsea Walker

Published on: 12/1/2014
The Day Before The Day Before The Funeral

Knuckles tapping screen door, closed, opened by, no
one. No one so, walk in.
Smell: July, aunts and cousins, biscuits, fireworks, cigarettes.
Hug longer, tighter, crushing shoulders
to dust, it seems. From dust you came, to
dust you shall return.
The house stands a time capsule, buried
Every July, every
time I sang karaoke You know that ain't no shit,
we'll be getting lots of tit
Wet face because
I didn't know the old lady who was laughing at me, every
picture on the wall is square, untouched,
piles of cigarettes rest on the counter, unsmoked. So
much potential to die. Every
Body gathers in the kitchen and looks at faces, no
one is sure.
We wander invisible in the shell.
The walls catch their breath, abandoned by
inhabitants, caretakers, both of them,
a lost conch resting at the bottom
of the ocean, sinking, still, empty, filling with
Food: Green beans pork roast with carrots pasta salad donuts ceasar salad lasagna other lasagna other lasagna mashed potatoes spare ribs plastic forks plastic spoons plastic plates plastic cups
Outside there is the swing,

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