Lee Fenyes

Inherit

Sooner or later houses will start to

betray you:

the leaky sink,

the suspicious, fuzzy spot on the back wall.

We once had a toilet lift right out of the floor—

the plumbers stared down into the hole,

muttering shit in Greek.

It’s a bit like bodies.

People warn me that I’m getting to that age

as if I haven’t seen already

the catheters and bags of fluid,

and caskets turning friends into earth.

Once you’ve been around,

a lot of things start to look like death, even

a walk in the park or a lunch date.

I can turn most things into tragedies.

My mother tells me,

Just because you think it, doesn’t mean you have to say it.

She also says, You’re haunted,

and it’s true.

My body is an attic full of leftover survival skills:

tense muscles, rapid heartbeat.

My ears swivel at the touch of movement.

I recognize myself in photos older than time:

a birthright of eyes staring out from bone. 

As I get older,

memories click into place.

Fogs lift, like the one that had me

panicked in showers, on public buses.

I teach my muscles to soften.

I tattoo myself with branches,

tree limbs reaching across my ribs

instead of sky.