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you never really know
you never really know
someone
until you go through their drawers
on a rainy day.
Break down their doors
and finger through their trash,
undoing the ties.
arms not needed.
These are
These are
precious things discarded,
hidden forgotten
until after death.
lying in a locked drawer
for sixty years.
Corners crumpled,
some torn,
moldy.
sixty years of dust. they are glued by the rim of her hat.
Who fashioned her?
Who fashioned her?
Double lips
for double kisses.
A red nose signifying winter.
Cracked marbles in her eyesockets
one ice blue, the other with a yellow
swirl. A cat's eye.
The old folding building has hundreds of tiny cubicles draped with canvas. he set up something in each.
The old folding building has hundreds of tiny cubicles draped with canvas. he set up something in each.
then disassembled them. assembled them again. arms and legs strew
the floor. Velvet robes and rags. Cattle bone whittled down.
A striped dress of mine
A striped dress of mine
vanished.
I found it here
suffocating them.
bodies made of translucent
stockings filled with a white paint
that had hardened.
what did it mean?
Two angels
Two angels
he said one morning,
staring out.
"I made two angels."
Behind brick, I found them
no longer alive.
Black gauze
Black gauze
stockings hung from the ceiling.
Indigo sheet.
The rest was plaster
and wire wrapped
lovingly, crumbling.
"Two feet".
That's all it said,
taped to the back of the right one.
Yes, they both have two feet.
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