while the woman upstairs sings.
But the woman downstairs is drunk.
She hits the dog while I cook soup
and think of how our lives break
like windows from a flying stone
or glasses broken on a face.
I think I’ll call the landlord
to say she’s disturbing the peace,
but I chop carrots.
She’s down to the dregs by now
and I’m cutting potatoes.
I know tomorrow she’ll be outside
on her knees with their girlhood scars,
planting red tulips and petting her dog
while meat cooks on the stove.
I slice onions and think about all the broken souls
wandering about in worn-down shoes
and aching joints.
The woman downstairs is drunk.
The woman upstairs is singing
beneath the blue roof,
and I am boiling greens,
tomorrow’s stew,
there are only damp walls and rotten wood
surrounding heat and electric,
and further down, deep thoughts of the forest,
mushrooms, the black coal
with its inner light.