at the wallpaper’s edge

you peeled a flower away

at the wallpaper’s edge

took the thin slip between

your fingertips,

and ripped

 

in one, elegant motion.

 

i am reading the diary

of this old house

i am dusting for fingerprints

and finding threeD images

dance across the backdrop

 

i have torn up the carpet.

i have lived other places,

never committing.

 

i have dabbled in decorating.

thrown pillows onto couches,

hung mirrors,

cooked until the air was thick

with heady spice and incense

 

yet there is never the memory

of mama combing my hair,

breastfeeding baby twins,

having a meltdown in the middle

of her favorite tv show

when we all yelled too loudly

 

there is no family,

without her, holding me

rebuilding a sense of togetherness

emerging from her ashes 

as a phoenix collective

 

wherever i flit,

i keep my roots tucked up

to my hips, cinched in belt loops,

unready to plunge them down,

to anchor me to my next set of memories

 

but i’ve begun flirting

with the notion of dipping my toes

into the earth’s wet dirt,

setting up camp amongst the trees

sprawling my belongings

out upon the earth

 

of building a sense

of connectedness

 

of fastforward-

rewinding, spinning

into the tangle of

camcorder cassette tape ribbon

 

of calling upon my ancestors

into the sacred space of self

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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