Mourning Station, a poem by Angelle Scott
“And what a congress of stinks! . .. Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath. “-Theodore Raethke, “Root Cellar” Our house sits in mud, no Pompeii. Nearly everything’s awry: the shampoo is wedged in the blinds; the beds lie on their sides; thick water stands in cups, sheetrock droops…