Country Living

sitting in a cold house staring at my empty wood stove thinking it’s my fault that she went cold

and with the lights out it’s brighter outside than in the snow reflecting the clouds reflecting the lights from town

a house is a strange husk home to so many others like the 18 white-footed mice I’ve slaughtered this winter

or my dreams which I no longer recall but which I presume to exist like the giant rat snake whose skin I found in the ceiling

my cold wooden house sits up a cold mountain hollow and so I am both high and deep in the country