Suicide House #81

Shane T. Wyman


Some days she is still there, standing

Beneath the ricketing ceiling fan-

Sure to come unhinged at the right speed


She is cooking or baking, mixing or blending

Something of herself, something Polish

Or Italian or working mechanic


Some days she is staring out apple-draped

Windows at the bases-loaded ghost players

We left behind at sixth grade graduation


She is sitting in her peach blossom chair, huddled

Over yarn balls, crochet needles, bible pages,

Logic puzzles, Twelve Sharp Janet Evanovich


She is lying on her white sheets and grey comfort,

Crooked dolled and tucked under her husband’s gun-

Her worries mothering love to millennial children


She’s on the freshly sanded staircase,

Pleading that her love is salvation- welding herself,

Desperate prisoner, to the wrought iron handrail


She is there- 81 Avenue- in that house we left

Abandoned- slow cooking her soul, dusting

Her trinkets for disappointing company


Quietly and clearly complaining to herself

Fussing and perfecting construction- making

those manic walls home for a family not coming





Shane T. Wyman is a New Hampshire native. He is receiving a bachelor’s degree in English at Northern Vermont University-Johnson, where he has served as treasurer to The Writer’s Club, and as an editor for Pamplemousse (ed. 5.1). He currently resides in Vermont.