Remember my satisfaction
in knick-knack shelving: pine
riddled with phloem, xylem lines
cheerily cohering in supportive
chorus that yes,
finespun gewgaws shall be upheld in this place!
Yes!
(Lacking power,
I had twisted screws through drywall
to sturdy the board by all
the torque my own right shoulder had.
As if this deed would compensate for
fragility elsewhere.)
The artifacts were inane.
A matte black Bastet cat with
inexact gold embellishments,
bought for twelve dollars out of the
import store cat pack,
and also hollow;
a white plate, glazed
to seal in a fingerpaint print
of a child’s pawlike foot;
two identical porcelain dolls
from a forgetful giver,
both named after me.
They all stood in a vague line
saying nothing decisive.
The dust now crowds
around the absence of their bases,
chalk lines,
anxious tracings of a murder scene.
Well, they were cheap.
Convincing, I professed my loyalty to the pine—
a venerable tree, bent to an unfit purpose—
But oh, did my skin prickle with
a sympathy for that porcelain.
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