corners of the dark room where sleep, woven
upside down, is a crouched moth waiting to leap
in the first flame of morning and turn to ash
A shadow shakes the white wall in that stuffed room
where your father once heaved stiffly as his young
laughter sought its way out. It is no wonder I came
spilling out as if a white hope inside you,
closely clutching the sign above the bed
“Recovery is a Masterpiece”
That summer morning, humid dominatrix
lashing the house, wet silk gown, hot
and white, splatters on the kitchen table
I’m waiting for a breeze
through this house and its pale laughter
You’re squeezed in the covers of a book,
shelled in a tight carapace of sweat and silence
A spider crouched in the corner above the sink
wanders slowly across the throbbing yarns
to a pinned moth sweating microscopically.
