Rooms is a piece I wrote; it’s broken up into four parts of mixed, literary and free verse poetry styles. I’ll be posting each part, separately over the next few days.
When they came, they approached one at a time and very slowly. There was no telling when one would continue onward, and the next would enter. The way they move, the way they loom forward, like a bad idea that knows its unwelcome… They lean in from so far away. Jagged and dark, the entire night sky is trapped inside; the clouds take up the whole sky. Moonlight gets focused, gets released in flashes. They kick up all the dust and, squinting, you can only barely see people running to get inside through the thick of it all.
When the first bolt hit, the shingles on our roof splintered off like driftwood from a beaching ship. The sky pressed open our jaws and tilted our heads until we were staring up at the gaping holes in the roof. We let the water fill our mouths and it drowned us in the sanctuary of our own homes. Good men die at the bottom of the ocean.
And then, all at once, it’s over. They hunger for more, so they move on. We get out of our hiding places and start peeling debris out of the way, looking for survivors. Most everyone is somewhere they’re not supposed to be; face first through a TV set, limbs draped over tree branches, torsos split by telephone poles. And we’re supposed to rebuild this? I couldn’t. I moved to this city, where everyone is as lonely as those trees, covered in bodies.
Good men die at the bottom of the ocean, not in graveyards.