Safe-house
Residents are ghosts;
sheet-covered
in every room.
Figures in armchairs
television news blazing,
sheets barely moving as they breathe.
In the kitchen,
a woman’s drape
marries her to the oven.
Upstairs, the sleeping forms
of children bedded down
for a long night.
Dust and ash fall inexplicably
not touching a soul.
poem by Helen Ivory
Added by Poetry Lover
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