 |
 |
Inheritance
With the house sealed tight,
the spiders still find a way inside.
Sun filters through
the newspapers
taped on the windows.
Every summer I let myself in.
I light a candle and visit the rooms
where I never played
as a child or held anyone's hand.
The cobwebs drape
low from the chandeliers.
Now and then, one would catch fire---
quick as a shooting star.
But not before planting itself
on my face. Like a mother's skin tone.
Arlene Ang
With the house sealed tight,
the spiders still find a way inside.
Sun filters through
the newspapers
taped on the windows.
Every summer I let myself in.
I light a candle and visit the rooms
where I never played
as a child or held anyone's hand.
The cobwebs drape
low from the chandeliers.
Now and then, one would catch fire---
quick as a shooting star.
But not before planting itself
on my face. Like a mother's skin tone.
Arlene Ang
Copyright © 2008 Arlene Ang. All Rights Reserved.
 | |  | |  |
Hear Arlene reading her poem.