Maria P. Vassileva
They tell the phone not to worry,
they lock up the doors.
Then, they tape mouth of the mailbox shut,
thinking: who would write? There is nothing
to write home about.
The address is hard to remember.
On weekends, they take walks.
It helps them
stay young, they say, and they forget
what they meant, where they were.
The house breathes out,
the window rests its head
against the mountain
they are climbing, opens up, swallows.
The nearby church rings its bells for dinner
and they eat bread on a bench.
She cooks by a dictionary.
He watches television, grows a beard like a newspaper pile,
he speaks very little. He throws the leftover pages
at the cat. It walks away, its steps
are stamps on the carpet.
They go to sleep still dressed and with the radio on.
It plays sad songs, then good ones,
then the news, then it listens
to the raucous laughter of late guests coming in,
sitting on the upturned chairs by the table.
After they leave, the window is unhinged
and the mountain
can leap out again.