Among rings of our dark, black woods,
I'm bound in apron strings.
Trapped in Formica.
Porch pumpkins rot,
cast pulpy shadows of home.
Every night in and out of soapy water,
I calibrate the oven.
The various temperatures of you.
I become a face buried in detergent,
in a wicker basket filled with your shirts.
My pipe dreams live in kitchen drawers
or under our paper mache bathroom sink.
Waiting for you in the icebox after work,
I channel my spider veined grandmother.
Flowered plates crack under mismatched shoes.
Tangled vines hide a window
where our ginger cats creep.
Perched, taut.
Prepared for an exit.
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