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.
S. BROOK CORFMAN is the author of Luxury, Blue Lace, chosen by Richard Siken for the Autumn House Rising Writer Prize, and METEORITES, a limited-edition chapbook from DoubleCross Press. This Lambda Literary Fellow’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Indiana Review, Muzzle, and Quarterly West (Best of the Net Nomination), among other places. @sbrookcorfman