Two Stairways | Bill Cushing
The first greets those who promenade
through the foyer to a sunken
living room; its steps—wide with
carpeted tread—ease beneath gilded panels
lined with portraits of staid patriarchs
long dead. Bright red lips brush fair cheeks,
besitos de cultura alta,
as these elegant guests parade
through the living room past a massive
dining table and walls affixed
with innocuous ceramic buttons,
doorbell fixtures to summon the help
from the kitchen hiding a second staircase:
steep, jagged, and above all concrete.
Servants—rough hands wrapped in skin darker
than the mahogany furniture
they rub to a high shine—trudge between floors
carrying the weight of meals, loads of laundry,
flutes of lemon water, and whispered curses,
triggered by constant buzzing commands.
Meanwhile, quiet worms of hate burrow, deep
yet imperceptible, into their hearts.
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