Once I believed that a house could sleep, its exhalations
mixing with the trees’ exhalations, it’s why that cool
permeates the air under trees at twilight.
But sometimes a house just sits there, impervious
to who inhabits it. Sometimes houses are towers—
families, sofas, sinks, bedrooms
stacked upon each other, only the roaches able to squirm
between floors. I could go on about suffering.
In our apartment, my brother and mother
exhaled dreams in their beds. I kept vigil.
The bells at St. John’s Church pealed
over the sleeping city. In the darkness, I thought
I saw the Northern Lights, but it was just
madness descending.
Frances Donovan (she/they) is the author of Arboretum in a Jar (Lily Poetry Review Books, 2023). Her chapbook Mad Quick Hand of the Seashore was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. A recipient of a Mass Cultural Council grant, Donovan’s poems have appeared in Lily Poetry Review, Solstice, Heavy Feather Review, SWWIM, and elsewhere. Their interviews of other poets can be found at The Rumpus and on her website, www.gardenofwords.com. Donovan holds an MFA in poetry from Lesley University and is a certified Poet Educator with Mass Poetry.
