In a house with brown shutters
flapped open like wings,
I build a close-lipped room,
go shoeless for beauty,
twirl my tongue out of tune,
pick at scabs tucked spic-and-span
behind each ear, feeble fingers
douse the lights.
Always this soft excuse
as if something base and boorish
has taken over me, this obsession
to create opulent spaces
where I discover nothing and the mist
along the river flexes its liminal lines,
drifts to the rhythm of other worlds,
pervades my bones like echoes
shared only with the wind.
Outside under a brash moon’s breath,
my foremothers snicker.
Pink bindweed stubbornly flower,
chokehold the ground.
Pick them, they will die, wilt
in your palm like fading youth.
I’ve traded lifetimes for shiny trinkets,
my ancestors tut-tutting in the dark.
