The Meadow 31 She says the sky will grow dark for days, that somewhere someone drinks blood like wine. She says the world is tipping, balanced on a knife edge, and when will I realize I’m wrong about everything? Her house is in order, although an absence of dust is not the opposite of crumbling. The dogs bark at every stranger that passes, and she tells me that I am blind when I’m afraid of how clearly I see. Taps her ear, lets the voices kick in again, wiser, all-knowing. The flowers against the house are dead, the mailbox leaning like it’s tired of standing. Last year the condos across the street went up in flames, but this year it looks like no fire ever touched them, like they’ve stood firm and solid for decades, like there isn’t mold crowding the corners, water that crept in when the roof was gone, when the gutted rooms with their abandoned furniture stood naked against the rain. Inner Rot Savannah Cooper
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