I am my lover on the shelf

— December 16, 2012 —

{After a long nap, this}

It occurs to me that many things are objects, with their own safety.

Mother collects them like the corners of a blanket with a thousand edges.   

We talk over piles of folded things. It makes the glasses on the shelf tremble.

I crack, “I am Brother, I am Mother, I am Sister, I am Story, I am Dinner, I am Water on the grass.” 

(But first I am Brother, always, my own imaginary being.)

• • • 

I collect objects with a necessary caution. Scared to pick up the things that refuse to hold me in their borders, unable to let go of the remnants of those that tried, then broke.


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