Anna Crandall
Glass House
Do you watch the sun set each evening behind
the roofline of your neighbor’s house and think you are safe?
The windowpanes turning inwards, reflecting one at a time
glowing bulbs of your little existence.
Each family member passes by, the oldest child with his face
looking out, the youngest seeing only his own heart.
Twilight wipes a soft rag across the sky. The neighbor’s roof catches
with a blaze. It could just as easily be wildfire; we packed bags
last summer as the smoke took one look around, circled, settled down.
Time hovers then shifts, each year seemingly plucked from suspension, dropped
down the run that speeds faster each round.
What is beauty but knowing this will end? To love life even though
the beginnings portend our cellular collapse, the loss of everyone and then some?
The universe keeps expanding as his watch now ticks on the dresser, unused.
Before too long, you’ll lose the stars, the smell
in his handkerchiefs, their small bodies curved towards yours.
It was his birthday yesterday, the years slipping seamlessly
from beneath you. You pulled your fingers through
the brittle grass, lit the barbeque, tempting fate.
Sparks glazed the air like stars that had already died.
You chose to hold it all to your heart. You tried.
Anna Crandall (she/her) is a writer living in Portland, Oregon. She has previously taught in Oregon’s Department of Corrections and is currently a high school Language Arts teacher. She is pursuing her Master's in English and Creative Writing and has work recently published or upcoming in MER Literary, Shot Glass Journal, The Pointed Circle, The Vehicle, and more. You can find her on Instagram @teacupsandghosts.
