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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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