House at Midnight Lane

Poems By Sano Malifa

Here at Midnight Lane, I built a house walled around like the inside of a cone: a cloister, a quiet— its door is not opened to any man.

This is where I come always to burrow, disengage, to unravel the mysterious substance without the usual victory, to disremember the unforgettable behind pitiless eyes of strangers.

I sit listening to the dark, the stoical moon silence, hear a name mentioned, your name maybe, my mother, grandmother how are you?

I see a street in Wellington, the ruined one that led out into the mouth of an engulfing storm; I see faces laughing, the mute sunrises, cold wind, the bird in the rain, sadness in her eyes weeping oceans of tears.

I try to visualize the present and the distance holding the future at arm’s length.

Empty is the world inside the cone sphere, so much space between uttered words.

Oh I am sick to death with simple necessities.

Here at Midnight Lane I built an institute, sepulchral-shaped to house my sanity.

I stand up walk around like an orator, demanding attention, mesmerizing an audience: books, floor mattress, ashtray, wrinkled paper; pacing the whole length of the stage back and forth, addressing the beautiful ruins on this side of America’s head.