The Old House

It grew mold. So I knew

It was the right thing to do,

To leave, to rid this house

Of all traces of us.

We returned to emptiness.

Weeds grew, smothering

The yard, patches of bald earth

Too sick for weeds to touch.

Mildew in the bathroom,

Soap scum in the shower,

Cloudy toilet water, matte

Yellow-brown stains within.

Thicker air than I remember –

Musty, heavy odor, gray.

Raspy voices echo through

Abandoned, dingy rooms.

Dark floors, narrow walls,

Ninth plague blackness, tar-thick.

We are slow-moving as molasses.

Children played here?

My final good-bye

The kitchen – missing pots,

Dishes, glasses – fridge bare

But for the mold it grew.

And I knew

It was the right thing to do

To leave – for good

And never

                        Go

Back.

Copyright 2011 Liya Khenkin