speaking to the brisk morning, the only reply is wind

poetry by Lucas Peel

speaking to the brisk morning, the only reply is wind

let me be a home, you say, a bed

that keeps you coming back,


childhood; wild wood, openfaced mountain

veined with recession. 


the tangle of chain link,

a thicket of bruised limbs and ivy.


i tell you that my greatest fear

is that i will spend my time building something

no one will ever want to live in 


and you say silly boy,


a house is not a home, or a tombstone or brick oven,

is not a tree stump in the backyard we drive our nails deeper into,

is not a mausoleum draped in plastic flowers. 

or the weight of the bodies it holds inside.


for we do not consider a haunt before the emptiness,

a stranger once told me, until a soft shell sags quietly

and disappears into the dull warmth of fog.  


curious, then, the sound of leaf and bramble underfoot,

a deafening cacophony of release. the geese have arrived today.

i know this from their song. 

an echo in the stairwell. door chime against tired walls.


the teapot screams from upstairs, a forest of lungs. 

asks me where the steam has gone.


i don’t know, i say. 


i haven’t seen a ghost in years.

Lucas Peel

Lucas Peel is a professional ranter, amateur mess maker, and real life manchild. His work has appeared in the Allegheny Review, TL;DR Magazine, Crooked Arrow Press, antilang. and is forthcoming in Apricity. Lucas currently lives in Aiea, Hawaii. We do not know what he is yelling about.