looking round at my woven nest
I draw myself in very tight
finding warmth within the lining
of fallen feathers, pressed flowers and leaves,
stones that shine and sparkle
or bear spots and stripes,
draped cardigans in every shade
and dripping wax to match.
pressed between waxy pages
stamped with black letters or smudged
with graphite, charcoal, and bleeding ink,
I coil myself within my carpet-patterned coat
and smear away the coffee rings
I leave on every dusty surface.
I've curated for myself a jungle
composed of house fronds and succulents,
trailing vines that spill down my walls,
and monstera leaves that unfurl
like the cracking of a chrysalis
beginning to emerge new life and new energy
from what once was stagnant death.
snips of thread and scraps of fabric
litter the floor like infesting insects
that crawl and scurry around misplaced pins,
forgotten needles, and bouncing beads of glass
all of which wink in passing
with their mischievous, glinting reflection of light.
I hibernate amongst it all,
huddled close to the spinning vinyl
that crackles and pops like burning wood.
I cocoon myself between yellowed keys of ivory
and the whine and static of the little box TV
so as not to lose my fingers and toes
to the glittering teeth that gnaw away outside.
they devoured all the color I loved,
every hue which filtered through my lungs
and into my blood as I gave my days to green,
yellow pink red blue purple orange
such things i can only find now
in the folded yards of velvet in my closet,
my sweaters, skirts, and satin stilettos,
and the tiny African violets on my window sill.
all trapped within my nest: every book cover,
drawing pencil, DVD case, terracotta pot,
hair tie, wine bottle, lipstick and record jacket
formulating a garden of color and creation
to insulate these starving days
and restless nights where the chomping teeth
are so bright as to have eaten up even the blackness too
and leave me to wonder when my living world
of fantastic technicolor may once again bloom.
