I have a house in my head.
At night I clamber up to look around.
I found it years ago–reaching into darkness, fumbling along walls
I discovered the opening and hoisted myself up
into a low-ceilinged room, close, cobwebbed, clogged with ancestral mementos,
shoeboxes of furry photographs, unhinged jewelry boxes, dolls with tangled human hair, tattered notebooks full of doodles and dreams and grievances and grocery lists
the stuff you can’t throw away
and somewhere behind the walls lived an old woman quivering like an invisible spider making herself known at the back of my neck. At first she’d blast cold venom to force me down on all fours to scrub, scrub,
but I kept feeling for cracks and eventually, I found the rest
the rickety elevator, countless floors full of cells, each with one door, one window, one bed.
By then the old woman was gone it was all mine now, empty and cold and still,
I worked every night for years oiling floorboards, sealing cracks with spackle grappling with the cold tidal waves of cobweb and clutter until I’d dusted every corner. The tower climbs forever. The rooms are the same, all hollow as a skull.
I was getting bored and lonely
but then I found the garden with walls of broken teeth, like bony pilgrims, trees listing to the side, solid plane of dirt to the horizon
There was work to do so I started to dig, knead soil with my fingers until it’s soft and warm, drizzle, coax seedlings, train tendrils where to go, work that will never be done
but look at it now, the grand house surrounded by lushness, velvet green and neon budding, blue-eyed pools and birds crooning questions to themselves
it’s the stuff you can’t throw away, all yours now, yours to keep, do with as you will, too much I know, but still I feel– at the base of my skull, with calloused fingers–for something bigger, a tug along, an opening, an urge to put down the trowel and start walking, through the gardens and orchards, into the dust, beyond imagination, maybe I’ll find something I’ve never seen before and yes, it’s all a dreamit’sallsymbolic, it’sonlypoetry, but more than that:
It’s really happening in my dreams this really happened
it’s really going to happen.
Do you have any recurring dreams?