Domestic
Mythology

We lived in the old neighborhood, bungalows row on row, and when he
mowed the grass near the chimney, startled birds flew out,
strumming in a burst.

Wind snatched the screen door from our hands, 20 degrees in April.
Frost taloned the windows. Pails dotted the living room under
winter leaks. An ancient furnace in the basement stretched octopus
arms and groaned. The tilting garage stank of burnt oil.

We got up so early the bruises never left our eyes. I yawned in
front of the computer, listening to the cats breathe. They curled
on the rug, heads jammed into each other’s bellies, torch of their
contentment alight.

But reader, I remember it all wrong. Believe me.