our old house's bones go song bird
in winter. barefoot i would
go to the basement
where the mice were speaking
of stolen morsels & glue traps.
everything is barefoot again.
the space heater in the living room
i would mistake for a rocking horse.
babies grew like grapes
in the attack. i craved hidden doors.
behind the bookshelf a separate life
where even the cold had gemmed eyes.
riding every horse i could find.
my bones sometimes fell out
& i would wash them with the wooden spoons
in the pond muck sink. do you ever feel like
you lived years of your life
inside a room only you can see?
often there is a song that spills
from the corners of my vision
if i am not careful. the room has
a burn pile. the room has a space heater
which is not a heater at all but
an actual horse. the horse eats
calender pages. i pull off numbers
& tell him, "tomorrow, tomorrow."
a arrow through the apple. paper airplane
through the window with a ranson note.
nothing like this scares me anymore.
i know i can just stay here
& the wind outside will make itself known.
a bus will drive all the way to
the whale graveyards.
no one will knock on my door.
in the spring i will not come out
but i will hear the daffodils ringing.