Copihue Poetry

The closet door in the bedroom creaks in the same way
every time, or so my brain says.
I can figure out which door opens
or shuts
in which part of the house,
without listening too hard.
 

Maybe I was a watchdog
in my previous birth
or an insect with antennae,
ever ready to pick up
the tiniest signal that could
mean a brush with death,
or death itself.
 

But why do I talk of death
when I am in a house
that lives, breathes and talks to me
every day, every second?