(Annie Spratt/Unsplash)

Still nobody at the door.
Junk mail and spam.
Robocalls from the Orient.

I’ll deep fry a turkey
and eat it all myself,
share nothing with nobody.

My Lares and Penates protect me:
the wall heater cranks and huffs,
the windows knock their frames,

the wind slaps and whistles me
back to the voices in my blood,
the disappeared, the stopped music

of the lost in the buckling force
that wheezes into the room.
The wind’s a skilled ventriloquist,

its moans of dead mother, father,
long gone friends, the-soon-to-be,
inquiring into cupboards and drawers.

Are they asking for me? They say
dumb things: “The ink fell from above.”
“I prefer Chapstick to food.”

They can’t go home. They live nowhere
but here. I’d lock them in, if I could,
and tell them this: Don’t stop talking.

W. S. Di Piero’s recent books are a volume of poems, The Complaints, and Fat: New and Uncollected Prose.

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Published in the February 2022 issue: View Contents
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