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Spadina Literary Review  —  edition 25 page 19

verse

Demise

by Dianne Scott

Our home is saturated
With the sour stench
Of our curdled marriage
Like the yeasty smell of forgotten socks
Dust-gathering under our bed

The lingering echo of
Kitchen-table arguments

Accusations devolve into a cold war
We entrench in different floors of our house
Enact the silent dance of Amish shunning

It is as if we had never pressed ourselves
To each other slow-dancing
Never ran down the sidewalk hand-in-hand to catch the streetcar
Or drank from the same beer bottle
Or clawed the sheets while staring into each other’s eyes