There’s Mold in the Attic and They Want Me to Smile

There’s asbestos clinging to the wood

that has only known termites and spiders in the attic

that belongs to this old house that we live in.

When I was a baby, I was taught dead men keep the roof

from falling in on us.

I watch as their sons spray Febreze on my bedroom walls

and ask who is ever in charge of the moon this month

if the rugs for our living room can come in Onyx

so I can live in the type of peace

that keeps me from noticing the ceiling bubbles.

There’s apathy in the cookie dough we burned

to hide the smell of decrypt strand boards that haven’t

been replaced since the asylums bones were still

living in the world where dreams of unlimited

skylines only belonged to the wind and the birds.

My lungs grew up knowing the different shades of grey

that smoke begot in my disloyal comfort zone,

so I let my teeth breathe when I reap the rewards

of being alive long enough to say

“My breaths have always sounded like this.”

Originally published in Prometheus 2021