SILENCE (for Arvo Pärt)

by Jerrod Schwarz

From Fall 2017

 When I listen to you, everything
 in a house becomes intentional.

 The old lampshades in the closet,
 laminate floor rippling in winter,
 holes from someone else’s picture frames.

 You make houses look like the limestone
 that grows around curled up fossils:

 I’m cutting asparagus in someone’s skull,
 I’m watching TV in the cave of a pelvis.

 The only things I remember
 from my father’s first house
 are mahogany. A highchair, a bunk bed,
 a coat hanger I inherited;

 its feet are loose, and its brass fingers 
 are the color of an ordinary stone.