My old home lures me inside–
the Sold sign a burst of red, the door
open like a throat.
The house is bare; the walls skinned of color.
But there’s pine on the floors—
I joked that the old dark wood
came from a 1960s confessional.
From the kitchen window, I stare into
the courtyard where I placed stones
into the fountain. During a party, a black bird
perched on the frame above the door
and I predicted death.
I had yet to learn that death
isn’t always the grand gesture
of a graveyard.
It’s the empty chair,
the silence on the stairs,
the people that die of heartbreak
through broken homes
Newfoundland born novelist, playwright, and poet, Fara Spence holds a master’s degree in Education from Mt. Saint Vincent University. A former columnist and high-school teacher, her recent publications include ‘Equus,’ by Adelaide Magazine (2021). She lives in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia where she teaches Creative Writing.