Copyright © 2018 Irina Moga

OLD HOUSE

Prose poem by Irina Moga; drawing by Tatiana Arsénie 

There was the time we spent together: time made of puffed up silences, suspended - just like the branches of the trees and the effaced gambrel of the roof.

Eroded shapes, bearing the brunt of our words; salty marshes in the distance, closing in on the sea that we knew would be a possible exit.

An old house, with boarded up windows and doors and creaking baseboards; tiny pieces of sand dollars nestled between rusted hinges and locks.

 

But there was no immediate sea, of course.

 

 

 

 

~~~

This poem was originally published in the online literary magazine Les Femmes Folles edited in Nebraska.