After Death

Rachel Pevsner

 
A house sits on a hill.
The door lies open.
Opaque windows shut.
The floor is swept. The dishes, washed.
The table smothered by its tablecloth.
The heater coughs.
The rooms are clean; the beds are made.
The furniture flows in white sheets, covered.
A fan is moving: around, around, around.
Over there, the stairs.
The steps, stiff.
The rails, cold.
Upstairs. Attic. Dust.
The house is empty.