I am

decorating.


Renovating.

I slide my lone box over
a few centimeters to the right,
all the snakes pile out, all the
crocodiles cry in the new light,
all the bugs
call me mother
or
something
of the like.

There is a draw string
that I never pull.

There is an empty corner and another
and
another and
oh, well
too many to count
And a memory of
my father
gesturing in silhouette
something I
can’t make out,

but he looks like
a womb, and
he looks like
my husband

and I have to clean


this


room.


I use my
little fingers to trace
the paths of echoes
long silenced
just to taste  
a familiar kind of quiet
because it makes
more sense than this
gnawing,
        idle
           knowing
come upon me as I age,


I must

clean this room

But
I
return

with dust.



There must have been,
I think

Something brilliant here,


once.



My
lone little box, housing my
lone little feather
Underneath my
lone little light
with its drawstring untouched,
because
it flickers
as it likes

All the crawling things beneath
This paltry foil
to my utter
desolation

The snakes,
the bugs,
all plaintiff

I don’t do things
I don’t put things
places,
I don’t
make the room full

I just
wander away.

But I am

decorating.

Renovating.

I slide my lone box over
a few centimeters to the right,

all the snakes pile out, all the

crocodiles cry
  in the new light,

all the bugs

call me fat.