This is the house that Jack built.
This is the entry: rows of shoes, feet still in them, bones dogs chew.
Slip them on and walk a mile, see what made dead people smile.
This is the living room: dead strings of eyes, bobbing low and bobbing high.
Pop yours out and pop theirs in, perspective’s easier to change than skin.
This is the kitchen: morgue-fridge, priests serve the slain with olives and figs.
Wash your hands in the blood of the lamb, season judgment, slice sins like ham.
This is the closet: body bags, cadaver jumpsuits for teens and old hags.
Tired of living? Pull out a hanger—be warned—death doesn’t kill sadness or anger.
This is the mirror, traveling souls, ghastly gate
for those who loved and loved to hate. Summon
a dead one, green from the grave, ask
what they regret and what they forgave. Too late
for them to change their mind, but you can
walk straight out the house and
live or die.
Sarena Mason holds a B.A. of Science in English, with a minor in psychology, from Middle Tennessee State University, where she was awarded the Homer J. Pittard Creative Writing Award scholarship.
photo by Dan Meyers (via unsplash)