Against the Faces of White Roses  

 

by Danielle Susi

 

 

The doorjambs stitch 

with the humidity now. I hope everyone in this empty house hears 

            me when I get up in the middle of the night. I hope 

                          they hear a seal break and 

                          a floorboard moan

 

A quilt is a lot like sorrow 

             in that

                         it buries you

creates seams over you into 

an obsessive surface 

             scrambled

 

The hum 

The drag of a presser foot

                                                         through a hollow

 

Dust clouds when we clap 

against looseness, 

             against the faces of white roses

 

A quilt will not make you 

feel less solitary but mimics the weight and heat and

            sweat of a body. It’s skin, 

            a series of piercings 

            you run a hand past imperfect flesh

 

When you get so swollen

I cover you

 

                        let yourself sleep