Matthew Sholler

Basement on the Last Day

by Matthew Sholler

Below the dead light of that window

that’s too small for me to breathe,

I can see they all came here seeking refuge,

lying close to each other in the dark,

on their sides, knees tucked into their chests,

facing the same direction like beetles,

only air inside where the muscles should be

and arranged in still groupings.

They know I am here now but they will not help me

find a warm place among them

even if I wanted it.

They have protected their space with pools of urine

dried into watermarks with yellow fringes,

and in front of those are holes

cut wide down through the concrete,

where they had to squat over the straight edges

and look away from each other in shame.

I take my place facing them from the other side,

where I could look straight into their eyes that deny me,

and I assume my beetle-pose on the cold floor,

covering myself with strips of white toilet paper

and cuffing at the black cats that crawl over us

like colicky babies, irritable and insistent,

their small skulls stubborn fruit against my joined fingers.

Matthew Sholler is an actor and poet, a one-time Peace Corps volunteer (Bolivia), and a full-time lover of all things Latin American. He recently concluded a torrid six-year affair with New York City, where he lived in three of its five boroughs. He earned a B.A. in Spanish Language and Literature from the University of Michigan and a graduate degree from MIT. He currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico.