My old house is a cool stone
mansion, and in its halls I hang
like cobwebs. Winter is dry. My
chimney smoke is thin and I prod
the flames with my hands.
The pages of my library books
are yellow and frayed. Moss spreads
in my fountain, fades like an old
tattoo. Skinny trees wear lichen
like lace gloves.
A ghost cat plods its cold paws
on marble. It slips into wallpaper
when I look away, into chalices
and cherubs and olive branches.
One day, I noticed the portraits in
the hall are me: a child, small smile.
Paint torn across my round cheeks
like stretch marks. How weird,
I think. How odd.
Dust collects everywhere but their
frames. Bright gold and thick. When
I climb into bed it grips me like ivy.
A cat howl rings but my eyes have sunk.
The fire fails; I sleep.
Madeline Marks
Poetry
BFA Writing 2024
Wallingford, Pennsylvania
