my doctor describes a speculum  

only this part goes 
inside you-- 

there was this old 
abandoned house on 9th avenue
that they knocked down--

weeds up the walls
like cellulite--

i'm standing in the debris
wishing i would have gone
inside before they 
ripped her walls from
her body

it's not very large 
at all--

here do you want 
to hold it?

bricks & bricks & bricks
baby teeth in 
the dirt

the ghost house 
was on the other
side of saucony creek--

cold stone floor--
we wrote our names 
on the walls in sharpie pens--

minor flooding

handful of hair

knotting shoe laces--

he didn't take off
his shoes--

there was no doors left--
just open archways

you could stare through
the whole structure--

roof trust-falling inside
the structure--

i caught shingles
like feathers or snow flakes--

outside rotting 
tree torsos waited
for us to use them 
as mattresses

what do you call
your parts?

i call it a vagina i guess

& i've always wanted
to stand in the public pool
when they drain it in October--

i don't have any reason
in particular other
than i would feel at
peace in the emptiness--

walls rising--
the deep end a dry throat--

a cavern-- 
would it hold rain?
bats?
fish?

i'd curl up 
& feel safe-- 

feel like
no one could possibly 
know where i was

we don't have to do it 
today-- we can pick up
next time
do you want to take
it with you?

i want to rebuild
that house from 
9th avenue-- weeds & all

i miss it--

with it's cats staring
from beneath 
the wooden porch--

with it's jagged cracked
window--

cut yourself as you
slip inside--

who has the door knobs?

the mailbox?

it only takes 
a few minutes &
then we're done 

i hold the plastic device 
like a jaw bone--
like a window--

this time i'll
build door