Roof Rot

You never leave the swamp.  You are slim still.  You make your clothes and grow your food. You live an uneven type of life.  Roof rot is a daily concern.  When you see him caked in muck and loam, you come down the ladder from the roof.  You stand him under your crude outdoor shower and pull a cord to dump a bucket of rainwater.  He stands with an arm against a black ash, steadying himself.  It’s cold, you say.  But it’s all I have, you say.  There, there you say.  You lead him to a simple chair and table inside your swamp cottage.  You stir oatmeal into fast boiling water on your woodstove and feed the man. You wipe his chin clean and finish off the oatmeal like a good mother would.  You take off his boots then socks.  You drop to your knees and kiss his toes separately and with passion, pulling each into your mouth before going on to the next until you have done all ten.  You and the man sleep together, later, his large craggy head between your legs, hair mingling with yours and he brings you up out of the depth of the earth with a shattering scream though you are really alone and always are.  You make the bed.  You make oatmeal.  You eat oatmeal.  You climb the ladder.  To roof rot.