Beneath kitchen tables and
under stair well nooks.
Behind worn recliners,
in corners, and books.
In tree branches,
or from beneath front porches,
I'll look.
I'll make a nest
of the niche I pick,
in which to rest
my heavy head lock in.
Somewhere quiet,
out the way.
A place a dog would go
to die.
Parts of me
will be kept,
a capsule of time,
never spoken about.
Or pressed
between pages
to be held flat,
forgotten about.
From beneath side swept hair
I'll forever peer.
From behind linen skirt hips
of mothers,
I'll peek,
with eyes,
lit from within and wide
as a silver dollar.
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