THE HOUSE WHERE WE HAD FAMILY REUNIONS
Under decay and death—promises of growth and rebirth
The bloodroots grow early morning along the scattered trails
Of stone and brick blocks where a house had lived and bred
Its façade is without a mouth, nose and eyes
Its passage is naked under the roofless structure
Up the stairways and down the hallway to the haunted rooms
Where someone had once looked out from those rusted panes
Or lied on their back, looked up to the ceiling of leafy shadows
And listened to the invisible birds—thousands seemed to sing
In the eerie and humble hum of the house now closing for sleep
Editor’s Note: This poem appeared on our old site.
Cyndi Gacosta was born and raised in San Diego, California. She spent only a few years of her early childhood in Sorsogon, Philippines. She studied literature at UC Santa Cruz. Her work has appeared in other literary journals such as The Walrus, Monongahela Review, The Toucan, and Vanilla.