Bathrooms without shower curtains and other
ways to hold a funeral for a house.

It was a Tuesday because it's always a Tuesday.
He washed his face in the mirror and then
the man turned out the lights in the upstairs 
bathroom where he had always
left one light flickering like a earthbound 
star-- belt buckle of Orion to hold up
our fathers-- the red light above the
tabernacle. 
son and wives had watched for the glow
behind the veil of curtains  
and thought about
lighthouses and Christmas--
and their father who always left too
many lights one.
Front door closed like a jar of raspberry jam-- 
tighter & tighter.
The man walked away from the porch
between the two elm trees in the front yard--
one still holding the burden of a child's swing.
The house blinked
He was consumed-- swallowed-- submerged 
into the licorice veins of damp streets.
Sewn into the contorted sauntering of cars 
crawling on their hands and knees
through a foggy morning--
those basilisks or demons.
The house felt herself hollow-- caressed 
the space in her torso where they
had once laid the tweed couch
-- touched lightly
the scars from 
the children's watercolor paintings 
that had once hung at the 
end of each of her hallways-- she felt
larger & larger but still
tighter & tighter from the absence of 
foot steps & foot stools
under the staircase in the basement.
She waited-- vigil on into night and
the bathroom remained
dark and shower sat stripped naked without
a curtain. No one washed themselves
to let her cry there-- 
only then did she know she was dying.
There was a window left open downstairs.
In came the mourners already-- glinty beetles who
casually invited the moths and the chipmunks
and the raccoon who dropped
raspberries on the hardwood floor like
blood or broken down stars--
the last thing she could remember was
the sound of lightning bugs
turning their lamps on & off
on & off and she had wondered if
the man would peel her open by the front
door ever again-- fill her with warm
footed children and sofas and scars--
He could nail portraits to her vertebrae and frame
posters of rock bands across her forearms.
The next morning was Tuesday--
because it's always Tuesday.
She didn't wake up-- lay there
mouth open in her windows-- 
The raccoons wondered if it had been their
fault that she had died like that.
The two elm trees outside were startled by
the rotting wood beams on the porch--
looked at their own trunks and wondered
if trees lived longer than houses &
longer than people-- they had forgotten
to keep track of their age through all these
years and they nuzzled their roots closer
to her corpse for comfort-- held her body in
their limbs and sang to her
about humans & about fog & 
about how the lightning bugs had 
learned to severe off pieces of stars
to turn on & off their lamps every night.
The elm trees forgot about time again
and forgot to be worried about not waking
up-- scheduled a funeral for her and laid
vines that raptured into white flowers 
in April-- the bees made nests in her scares
and the wild raspberry bush outside
crept into the living room where
she used to feel the whole family come
together on the mustard tweed sofa--
filled her belly with glinty beetles
and they all wrote songs about the light
in the bathroom and the feet of children
even though they had never felt
them like she had. Her stomach bled with
berries and in that was the summer
she lost what was left of her eyes-- 
the shards of glass collapsing inward until
she was nothing but open eyes-- air paraded into
her hallways enough to rouse the ghosts of
each water color paintings 
and blow up the skirt of the shower curtain--
she shivered there.
Lit the light in the bathroom.
Washed her face in the mirror.