napowrimo day no. 21

 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.