Clarence House
In this stupid city apartment
that grows mold in the summer
and cold in the winter,
I wonder when home will live
up to its name. Is it true
it’s not supposed to hurt?
My heels hit the hardwood
and it sounds like war. No one
lives above me. The ceiling
still creaks and cracks, a threat
that I am never as alone
as I think. I don’t know
if I still want to be alone.
Heat rises. The mattress sinks.
The hallway carpet holds
the stink of someone else’s
weed. Was this what I wanted
when I said I needed
to leave? The paint bubbles
in the bedroom and I ache
for the sound of someone’s thoughts.
There is nothing better than this.
On the nights when it’s too hot
to sleep, I open up the windows,
breathe in exhaust clouds
from the Connecticut cross-
traffic. On the corner of Appleton,
a stranger sings my favorite
lullaby for me: shouting,
an ode to an ancient anger
too deep to excavate.
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Michelle Ott is an emerging writer from the mid-Atlantic. She earned her MFA in creative writing from American University in 2023, and her work has previously been featured in BOOTH Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Impostor: A Poetry Journal, and others. She currently lives in Washington, D.C. You can find her on Twitter @ChelleBelle825, on Instagram @chellexlouise_, or on her website at https://michelle-ott.com/.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 