our home will have a basement , an
attic & two floors pleated into an
upper & a lower . we will weave in a
lace trimmed lattice & taffeta win-
dows , they will be left open to an
enfolded infinity . we will forge our-
selves in emphatic gnathic cer-
tainty , that is to say , scissor our-
selves a way to let out a little at
the seams & at the same time let in
black snakes , their serpentine dark-
ness coiled in our underground ab-
dominal cavities , a gnawing feeling
that tells us to find a way out . our
hemmed in sages will suggest
we install sequins , a skylight even &
gorge ourselves instead on visions of
iridescence , a little more radiance
than we can handle , a cluster of
moths’ wings & seashells , such that
we reinhabit our organic hollows ,
those ensorcelled pockets lined with
velour , soft interiors where we can
sometimes be ourselves , safe eyelets
left for cufflinks . in the attic a
windup ballerina dances when you
open the box , in the basement a
dusted rosebud toboggan is mounted
on the wall next to an old photo-
graph of you by the Esquimalt , the
aperture robbing something of your
soul when it was taken , the place
you will have returned to often to
watch the pickerel & cutthroat
trout swim through frayed ribbons of
eelgrass , as if there were no
windows & not a stitch
of tomorrow
indwelling our
bellies