from THE BIRD ARTIST
The cellar, by now, is damp with rot. Plump with insects skittering beyond the lamp.
We frighten them as much as they frighten us. How we tighten our spines
and descend. The hem of our nightgowns dragging the dirt.
First, the daughters. Then the sons. We play backgammon in the gloom, where there's barely room
among the discarded trunks and broken chairs. The selves we cast off every spring,
every dress tightening our middles. Little shoes. Little bonnet.
How we lost it, then found it, covered in dust. The doll was an argument, so they cut her in half
with kitchen scissors. Smashed the train on its tiny track. Burned the ears off
the velvet rabbit. How we squeezed ourselves into our old life, topside,
but left part of us in the shadows, How you'd catch the girls laughing in the corner
and the boys mumbling in their beds. The ghosts we brought back with us.
We frighten us as much as we frighten them.
