2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 9

"A Room in the Old House"

Legs appear from wallpaper.
She is,
oh they are,
stepping out and down for me.

Arms hold gowns,
and lace more delicate than cobweb
bridals me toe to top.
Even alone in the house I speak
in the plural.
We are not going out.
We are enjoying the hour
and would like you to stay.

If the dust choked,
if the change were sudden,
I might be frightened,
but she talks and I smile
hearing only what one wall says to another.

My skin mottles and peels
falling back upon itself.
If not, the carpets eat.
This house is a thin mouth
with puckered jaws
and lips tight over me,
throat tight swallowing me.
Legs disappear into wall paper.

I am,
oh we are,
the girls with wild hair
and toe nails circling.
The blood of my wrists evaporates
as I wait for the gleam of
the shut door's knob.

When it opens
how my eyes will spin
as my mouth remembers wet.
The paint flecks down on her,
and my tentacles reach out
dry arms dry thighs and the rest.
The wall paper parts again.

"Gaze Has its Own Weight"

Her eyes travel where hands may not;
I still flinch.
Don't worry she says,
you won't be touched.
She doesn't realize
gaze has its own weight.
It is around my throat already.
It is opening my wrists.

She catalogs each scar
as I lift my gown,
now higher till I am nearly naked,
and I pretend she is drawing me.
The pencil sounds, and to drown it out
she asks if I am an artist.

I have to take my socks off.
I have to turn around.
After it is over
I remember her monotone voice
saying I belonged there,
and the only emotion I felt in months
was the desire to escape.