#1
extrapolations on borders/overnight guests

oh yes
I am in your room.
but instead of refinishing it, polishing those posts
or making it all seamless, even a few touch-ups
I furnish it;
I am shrink wrapped/in case you spill anything
in case there would be guests who could spoil everything.
there are coined terms to be found beneath the spaces
like a wishing well you’d throw your life away on.
you’d seat a piece of ass
and I am heavy as hell.

I’m just wallpaper; coffee-stains above you as you sleep
a quiet reminder beforehand of every morning after-
picture it: each tiny work of art mass produced
copied and coiled in copious amounts; some still life of oranges
or some other fruit, laminate and all else plastic for posterity to preserve it,
to back up the wall; paper thin to begin with.
I am watermarks above your bed
warping in the fluctuations between the heat of the moment
and the coldest shoulders. the other side of those white pill pillows
that rest just below the head as you do.

or am I just the light of your life?
that lamp you can turn on
whenever you need to shed some light
on that current situation:
in crossed wires beneath glass, once shaken becomes the rattle
ever out of reach; but a simple screw could dethrone me
to be replaced with someone far brighter
and more conservative
of such energies.
--it is the switch—
the cord leash hangs from me- the would be noose
that has such great pull on me.

or could I be that priceless frame
either hanging itself
or well hung beneath you?
the crucifix boxed in; fit for a queen
and I, subject to such rule.

or possibly in second place- the timepiece that merely tells you
off, following in every minute footsteps
and to your alarm, reminding you who is right
and when you are running late.
worse still, could I be merely the bedside table
barely one night-standing for it
concealing all kinds of protection
or a flashback for when your power is out?
this top drawer dress, exchanging the most private things
but keeping to our cellves in this room behind bars.

these sheets that I am
are written all over your face

and lying on top of you in the dark; (my paperweight heart- for these stacks)
almost illegible smile lines, smudged, those lashes
of ink curled italics above your eyes
(always such a bold look. and somehow I never knew you were the type.)
but completely made up
to lie for the rest of the day,
to cover for you constantly.


I was once photos lining the mirror,
pressed between your fogged breath & the glass
surrounded by the same frame/stood up
shown to close family & friends.
but the clothesminded often keep their skeleton key closets
full & the spare between that mattress has found its way out.

I am to move on now
with no room left for me
the borders and lines crossed
and having overstayed that welcome mattress
am expected to return the key to those brunette locks
and all that baggage taken with me.
I have made new living arrangements
the Siamese twin bed to myself/up half the night all the same
and yet, it is the better half.
for how was I to survive//without the room to breathe?
open those windows of opportunity. the fresh heiress is in my lungs.