In the shower
I realized that the world
my little world
had made me greasier than usual.
Peeling layers of black
from my face
and from under my fingernails
as if I were rubbing away at soot,
as if the volcano blew its top
and death was giving me a warning.
The soot continues to fall
clogging up your airways.
Did you realize
you were living in a home
that was trying to kill you?
Your mother jumps into the sea
tries to swim
and is boiled alive.
You run to the kitchen
Screaming,
and realize the cat has died peacefully
submitting to the layer of thick gray ash
on her back.
These walls will kill you.
There are four
or maybe eight
or more
of them,
and you cannot get out.
These walls will kill you,
and so will sitting still.
Did you realize for the first sixteen
years of your life?
The cat is curled up in the kitchen again
submitting to the quiet around her,
the very small quiet that’s left.
Your mother is screaming
in the basement
in the sea
tries to swim
but cannot.
There were too many walls
four
or maybe eight--
tried to kill her alive.
The black is peeling off my face.
scrub it off
as hard and fast
as you can.
These walls
are coming in.
My father tries to soothe,
ends up spitting fire and ash.
These walls.
The black is peeling off.
These walls
are coming in.
More is coming
Every minute.
Is coming in.
The warning signs
are
relentless.