The Destroyed Object Is Resurrected - A Prosepoem
In a bridal gown in the waiting room of a doctor’s office on a Friday at sunset. The doctor shakes his head at my husband who is squeezing a drawer full of plump mouse. The outcome is still unknown, but my husband is sure he can fill the room with the perfume of constricted mice. The tubby white rodents will silently and with eager squirms shoot out their little death pieces. Waste like slivers of ice-clear glass he could read as one might tea leaves over his lap and fine shoes.
Shrinking into myself under a crown cracked through, I taste a piece of the veil and am suddenly tired as it dissolves over my tongue like a quick poison. The little sleepy graveyard in my stomach winces as it sinks. The floor lifts me on the motor of its platform back to the road. Too tired to walk home, Bigfoot puts down the blueprints he was carrying and takes off his hardhat. He scoops me and hustles me onto his motorcycle- a thing velour with fur- more even than he has.
Feeling better back at the castle, though when I go into the kitchen the staff have turned into simian creatures. Not quite human, not quite monkey. Something gleefully in between, well-dressed as ever. They like all the windows open and now that the sky is as green as the back lawn, so do I. Upstairs my husband sits on the bed and mimics the sound wrathful breezes make as they thrash thru the window bars. The rattle-howls collect along the walls encouraging the ivy, which was already drunk with curiosity.
Hearing a different call, like a new bell, I peer down. Two of the kitchen monkeys are holding mice and loping away over the hill. Lingering in the courtyard is a young girl whose only passport is selfishness and a guitar. She has fed children and slept on rocks and been a spinster before her time in the war. Her eyes are steely with the future and we have a staring contest where we both win. She is a neighbor, but she is lost. So she looses our horse from the barn to make it just as lost. I know they’ll both end up at the well.
After the sun reappears, in order to placidly urge my bath of lucky bamboo toward maturity in a champion of rays, I count back from twenty where I was soaking wet from the roots. I bring a pear from downstairs in the dark pantry to upstairs- my room full of sunshine. I place it on my windowsill to ripen its verdant meats. Its skin still light brown, fuzzy and bitter, the roughness in the fruit left alone to dissolve its way out of discovery.