after Molly Brodak
In the shed, a shed snakeskin,
silver as salmon, with dead-fish
eyes that stare —
which means somewhere beneath
the house, five feet of new-skin-covered-muscle
moves through divots in dirt or coils
behind the snow shovel or under a tarp, some other
unsuspecting corner. We can only see
what is revealed to us, no more. Scrim
of socks on the bedroom floor, animal bones
buffed and polished
on windowsills, silhouettes of a life being lived.
I want a permanence I can’t have—
I miss the breeze before it dies
down. Miss my house before going
on an errand. Leave it to me to romanticize
an onion. A toothache. A plow.
I take what has been discarded and hang
it from a nail just inside the shed door.
Each time I ease it open, I’m startled
just the same. A prank I’ve played
on all my future selves. I turn
my compost and delight
in the rot, the crawl, the buzzing,
the decay that promises survival.
