Hospitality

A tendril of the vine emerged
through the house’s bulging, cracked foundation.

First, barely a finger-width wisp
purring of darkness—damp and blind 

creatures slithering along the edges of home,
creeping up the siding.

It makes friends with the cats,
who are suspicious, but listen, eventually,

to succulent promises and powerful secrets. 
They assist the vine’s progress, scratching at the wall,

widening the fracture, hissing if I approach
with shears or poison. The vine inches out, a pale 

and lovely green. There will be blossoms soon, 
say the cats, if I can be more hospitable. 

So I yield the basement. I don’t miss it, 
except when I trip the breaker, and can’t reset it.

I light my gas stove with a match. I fill
the room with candles and think it’s 

better this way. The jarring, shifting shadows, 
the room hazy with waxy smoke drifting 

around and around until it settles in a fog at my feet, covering
the cat’s movements. But sometimes I see

swirls and hear a creak as they deliver
items the vine has asked for. Broom.

Slipper. A small, white baptismal Bible. 
I can’t muscle the windows open; suspect a slim

finger has woven tightly around the lock.
Soon I cannot come or go, porch overtaken—

brilliantly green in the sunrise, the promised blossoms 
sweetly breathing stay.

ALLISON P. BROWN

Allison P. Brown, MFA, is a western New York–based poet and editor. She works with student publications and faculty authors across New York state. Her micro-chapbook Small Remedies was recently published by The Engine(Idling, and other work has appeared in the Indianapolis Review and Epistemic Literary Magazine, among other publications.