Gallery

I walk into the gallery you call my home

And it is a maximalist exhibition, decked miscellaneous. Also: a

mishmash zine, posters for keys perdu;

curated jigsaw of the mastered welcome-mat shadow and

jelly-plumped planners—

and also of spaces purposefully erased. Example:

Red-eyed, blue-eyed stare at popup window

Five minutes past midnight. The screen glimmers in warning:

This action cannot be undone. Rhythmic tap, I delete the memory—

And in the open wound there is another place to pray.

Now I am not a multimedia artist—not an artist at all

Except in the way I move past unread dust, icing a

Sleeping brown-striped bookshelf

And the muffled sinking of my feet against silken tile.

Pre-sunset shadow cues a one-woman ballerina show, and

no, I am not a ballerina either—indeed not a dancer at all

Except in the tango of my fingers counting the seconds on the

Clock, gleaming silver bird;

Except in the littered Everest of spearmint tea in the kitchen

Except in the careful patterns of bicycle wheel stains by the door

—except in the exuberant draping of my being on every atom of this

World—my heart, my home: all these things I

Have not been except for here, then, now: all these

Cheese-rich comforts over the scrapbook holes in the walls.