homeless house

This knife sits much smaller in my hand

after so many years, the weight of it has lessened, shifted

the curve and massiveness of the handle is dwarfed by my adult fingers

hand, forearm, eyeballs.

the knives, pickles in a jar, sturdy cans of SlimFast, 

his kitchen stuff makes me remember.

I haven't seen these butter knives or the sharp ones with the red trim in over fifteen years. It's unbelievable that these objects still exist- artifacts
 not carved out of some false memory of my childhood-
imagery burned into my cells
 embedded in my bone marrow by some fantasy transfusion

in fact true.

here. spreading butter, cutting bread and meat in his house.

Seeing them now I feel relived

I feel bewildered.

my same heart thumping still

only certain dishes can be used here, the squalor the wreckage is wearing a thick coat, 

privilege

the infection infects itself insular breathing it's own hot breath back in

a stale hot cycle.

                             our existence is too terrible 

our eyes 

I shower scrubbing off the turpentine workday. 

My skin is older

a stranger in the tragic tub shaving adult legs

hands and feet with black nail polish, a woman notices 

the water pressure- the architecture of the bathroom

it reminds her of being poor, being a child, having thick long ratty hair

wet and cold down the child back

put my head in a laundry bag and shake it

cover it in cotton ball fuzz

numb buzzing around my nose, inside my teeth. my ears hum.

I am wet in the water 

   I try to remember outside of this space

I say the word  

      
           human 

out loud.

I try to morph the piece of trash child into the shape of a human woman

I feel bewildered.

I feel homeless in this house.

sleep. just go to bed, leave the woman body here

I am in the bed at seven pm

being lucid in this place is the ultimate nightmare

So Many Years

a familiar suffocation

it is this that make 

Settling

 and 

    Survival 

run rampant.

I hear coyotes

I close my eyes and go to them