In my dreams
I built
windows instead of dollhouses
with all i had and was given
in moments of brief certainty
i
pounded in sharp nails
at the corners i framed
them hastily
and watched
through
them-
fragile
barriers
crystal
thin
and rough boards
rustic
un-sanded
splintered
sharp-edged
feigning protection
to let in
and keep
in
and look out
- and mostly into myself
beautifully forgotten
in a shaker style
my sisters
decorated
what they accepted
and built a life in miniature
they practiced
tiny fantasies on display--
polished
the same hard facts
moved them around
lovingly
carved spirals
and molding
and shingle roofs
stairways
and rooms
upstairs
or downstairs
or
Upstairs
doorways
that led
to bathrooms or hallways
or out
to contrasting
worlds
in big and small
and darling little windows
to peek in
or poke your fingers through
when the whole thing wasn't
discreetly
folded
open
in
Victorian perfection
they glued it all together
carefully
with something
sticky
like optimism
hardened,
I think
building new sections
they
wiped away the hopelessness that seeped
out
tightly clamped edges
waiting to dry
with something like
complacency
and
ease
insight and escape
maybe
something this simple could be easy
but I've been too busy
and
every time I see a mirror
I'm disappointed.
I press my cheek against the cold, clear glass
I can't get through
strain to see another angle
from my view
why am I so innocent?
I could have placed knickknacks
on shelves
collected,
rearranged
the pieces of myself
while I watched and waited.
