Door, open
Heart, exposed
House in order
Everything cloying, close
No dividing walls to speak of
Looking up from living room to see my room, or my mother's
Blankets draped over railings to give some semblance of individuality
But light womblike warm, tangerine tinted as if passing through skin
Illumes all equally
Painted with the same dust
Doors, open
Parts, exposed
Take a souvenir
Piles of shoes
Hersmine, his?, oursmine
Take a souvenir
Idiot crackle of battered old TV everything
Open to the whispers of the infinite
Family together, house in order
All of them all ears, save mine
Whose silence is husbanded, headphone counter culture cultivated
Ever reading, the silence of print dancing in the air
My cocoon, wooden ark, tomb
Womb, stillborn, comfort blanket, noose
Home.
[JM Francheteau]
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