Pocalyps-O.

There was a dying woman
with androgynous baby in a crumbling house.
Found a white plastic bathtub, freestanding,
the stairs slanting toward me
so I clumbered backwards
as well as upwards
to the balcony precariously
leaning into the rubble streets.

She, wispy
demanded of her tenants
rules and payment from the off-hinged open
closet door where she lay on the floor
at the base of the sea foam green stairs
with the baby maybe breathing
on her heart.
A sign told the hours I could stay
the people that were not allowed
and the unwelcome that had been
blasted into her.

There may have been an earthquake
or a political uprising;
there was no home
in my dream
save lone tub
and in reality

perhaps neither has she.