I’ve made the pitcher on my table human again.
Her elegant white neck, belly slightly bloated
with flowers. Candles my mother stole stand
in borrowed silver candlesticks, and I can’t understand
why one has burnt faster than the other.
If I bought these sleek white chairs the same day,
why is one splay-legged, and treacherous?
There are too many dollhouses for a house with no
children. Not enough water in the vase of petulant
blooms. Grass has grown through the bedroom
wall, following the tunnel of wires. If nature can
use cable cords as subways for new growth, then
I’ll be still til I am overgrown, nail polish chipped
like an old car left in the sun. My hair falling out like
seeds of the dandelion, scatter and thrive.