ghost furniture 

i plead with you until you let me
leave a chair open for visitors. 
the rocking one with the gnarled cushion. 
we were going to throw it away. 
a pile of shoes spills from the hall closet
that wasn't there last night. leather heels
& slippers. i put them in a garbage bag. 
in the morning you are weeping
standing on the stairs. you say,
"i keep remembering." i distract you
with a television the size of my palm.
birds roost beneath the bed. i tell you
about the woman with cherries for eyes.
we go to her where she lives 
inside the well door with spiders. she is not there.
you tell me you believe me even though
i can tell you're scared. it is august when
you get rid of the chair. this house is hot.
dead air conditioner still coughing
in the window. you say,
"this is our house." i tell you,
"every space is shared." you are sick
of the visitors. i build doll house chairs.
the guests return. the chairs multiply.
become actual size. isn't that how it always is? 
a fixation is the size of your thumb 
& then you have a living room too crowded with chairs 
to imagine sitting. then the shoes. 
even more than before.
they topple from drawers & down the stairs.
"i didn't want this," you say &
it is midnight & i wanted to sleep hours ago.
the radio plays & we beg for it to shut off.
sometimes a dad rock station & other times
opera vibrating the spine of the place.
"it was you," you say one morning
while we sit on the ground in the quiet.
the sun has cat eyes. the road outside 
is made of fire. "it was," i admit. 
"i was lonely."