APRIL THE FIRST (2011)
There is fountain grass in my limbs
plumose flowers
that turn in my fingers like blind caterpillars.
I move my hands over boxes and tape,
move through my house
deliberately,
taking,
like a pupa moving through leaves.
I will miss my jar of flour,
my broken floor lamp,
my half-things.
I move my hands along them,
and dig my fingers into the carpet.
There are scratches near the doorframe
and holes where nails and pins went.
I will miss taking these bites.
I will miss breaching my house.
I pass my hands along my walls
as I move through my house, filling them.
I move through my house,
watering and feeding.
My bones are fountain grass
and the brushes in my bottle arms
are branching.
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