Death House
By
Richelle Slota
“I want it
expensive, you don’t understand,”
said the old man,
hunched in a wheelchair,
sucking oxygen,
his thin, heavily veined hand
fluttering like a
black and blue butterfly,
“Cool,” said the
contractor who used to be
a hair stylist. “I
can make it expensive.”
The old man
coughed. “I want the equestrian barns
hand-built by
Amish carpenters, the formal gardens,
the stocked ponds,
the covered terraces, the libraries,
the tennis courts,
the glass-tiled infinity pools,
I want the gravel
paths, the quarters for seven-full-time staff,
the over-sized
guest houses, the eight-car garage,
the Jerusalem
limestone surfaces, the billiards rooms,
the hand-carved
Honduran mahogany grand staircases,
I want the frosted
Chihuly hand-blown-from-the-glory-hole
chandeliers, the
18th century unicorn chests,
the onyx sinks,
the sunken tubs, the chef’s caliber kitchens,
the steam room,
the whole house automation,
I want the curated
art installations, the fully stocked
champagne cellars,
the sound-absorbing cork floors,
the super-whisper
condensers, the triple-stage motors
that move air in
silence.” He paused, “This will be my last move.
This will be my
death house.”
Richelle Lee Slota (formerly known as Richard)
writes poetry, novels, and plays. Her poetry chapbook is Famous Michael;
her novel, Stray Son. She lives in San Francisco. She serves
as a Meter Keeper, teaching meter to other women in Annie Finch’s online Poetry
Witch Community.