The Night House

Painting by Melinda Piroso


The Night House


Every day the body works
in the fields of the world
mending a stone wall
or swinging a sickle
through the tall grass --
the grass of civics,
the grass of money --
and every night the body
curls around itself
and listens
for the soft bells of sleep.

But the heart is restless and rises
from the body
in the middle of the night,
and leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
with its thick, pictureless walls
to sit by herself at the kitchen table
and heat some milk in a pan.

And the mind gets up too,
puts on a robe
and goes downstairs,
lights a cigarette,
and opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
and roams from room to room
in the dark,
darting away from every mirror
like a strange fish.

And the soul is up on the roof
in her nightdress,
straddling the ridge,
singing a song
about the wildness of the sea
until the first rip of pink
appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return
to the sleeping body
the way a flock of birds
settles back into a tree,

resuming their daily colloquy,
talking to each other or themselves
even through the heat
of the long afternoons.
Which is why the body --
that house of voices --
sometimes puts down its metal tongs,
its needle, or its pen
to stare into the distance,

to listen to all its names being called
before bending again to its labor.

~ Billy Collins ~

Posted over on Panhala