from Luxury, Blue Lace

 

 

What of a life wrapped in thread is vaunted.

 

An odd house, memory, certain doors toward anachronism. A decayed wall.

 

When I hallucinated a spider web I imagined a wedding dress, pristine and impossible to dust.

 

A wrought-iron bed to lie in while holding court.

 

Over everything, threads, threads played like a violin, the taut ones, the ones coming down without sound.

 

When I lift the suitcase, I must be sick, I am so weak. But the suitcase is filled with rocks, with books, nothing I would have thought to hide away.

 

Traces of memory like oil across glass, smudged from use, a hot, crowded emotion.

 

You once told me a chair is just not interesting enough, but I think it is, it is, when one cannot sit in it.

 

What would you think of me now, sometimes still unable to leave this tight-wound home.

 

Small bells and their occasional ringing, their pulls plucked.

 

From the tall dresser at the entrance, individual hands knot.