Deep in the house
in the pit of the house
where the concrete sweats
there is a stain
and a leak so slow
it tastes of the dust
that it gleans in the rising—
It clings to us
a humid grit
that will stick
to the skin
a word lodged in
a throat
a secret shame.

A man was killed in my house.
His wife did it, or he killed her.
The facts blur in the dark.

Come and run me out of town
down the hill, over the rock.
Drive me into the deep.

My mother worried that I would not sleep
if I knew what had happened
and so she never said a word
about the blood that spattered the wall
the carpet where I spread my legs
not until later
and later things began to make sense
why my friends would burst into tears in the basement
why I would kick my way around corners
as though the killer were waiting for me.

The sediment settles in the deep
and, fathoms down, the eyeless see
and I wonder what settled on me as I dreamed
what knowing crept into my bones.

– Sarah Joyce Bersonsage