miranda's cellar

rising from the cellar of miranda!
the spaces between the wooden slat steps, a void!
effecting
tendrils of contraband smoke willowing out the door strip
not foiled by the threadbare towel stuffings,
not foiled!
trailing up behind, sweet scented, food scented
the spaces between the wooden slat steps, a void!
miranda laughing
quietly below
you never know
would her mother and father be home up there?
would they know?
what we'd been doing?
what we'd been into?
eyes rimmed red and throats clasping for moisture?
and the spaces between the wooden slat steps, a void!
cricking!
cricking door at the summit
you know it opens on a hallway's olive green carpeting
and a sideboard made of 70's panelling
eyes rimmed red, and mouth dry like grit
cricking! cricking door at the summit!
and it opens as you approach
miranda!
laughing quietly at you,
she's done this every day for 18 years.

he's still there, affixed
"what is that, fiber glass? what?"
miranda, laughing quietly behind you
he's still there, you're transfixed
his visage so tortured and gory on prominent display
his eyes rolled back so far in his shining head
waxed head!
only whites show!
his skin white like snow!
his arms out wide in a "t"
only white shows
the red trickling of his pain
and the cricking door at the summit
and the spaces between the wooden slat steps, a void!
and the phantom parents who lurk, or not
and miranda!
miranda!
laughing quietly with you!
at the shame of her family's fervor
and the fiber glass reminder each morning she rises
when a man is left to die for days
with bolted hands and feet to wood in a "t"
white only shows
white only shows the red and the rimmed eyes, more brightly
as you rise from miranda's cellar.