I have bricks of furniture and walls.
Mortar mixed of paint and fabric.

I have foundations of nostalgia and desire.
Plumbing made of photographs and journals.

I’ve got wiring strung of taut muscles and dripping sweat.
Windows paned in age and eyelashes.

I have fancy hats and rolling pins.
Acres of books and whiskey.

There are more baskets than picnics we’ll ever take.
But at least one hanger per memory.

I have pens and pencils and markers to spare.
With lightness and being to float.

I’ve got spare rooms and bedrooms and enough room for you.
But Ms. Scarlett did it in the Conservatory.

With the rope.

I have baggage and sadness and sweetness to boot.
And boots and sandals and tears.

I have light down from fixtures of crystals and love.
Skeletons in closets of papier mâche.

The blades of my fans flex in the shrug of my shoulders.
With wind made of kisses and sugar and fear.

And then there’s my bed.