Against the Faces of White Roses
The doorjambs stitch
with the humidity now. I hope everyone in this empty house hears
me when I get up in the middle of the night. I hope
they hear a seal break and
a floorboard moan
A quilt is a lot like sorrow
in that
it buries you
creates seams over you into
an obsessive surface
scrambled
The hum
The drag of a presser foot
through a hollow
Dust clouds when we clap
against looseness,
against the faces of white roses
A quilt will not make you
feel less solitary but mimics the weight and heat and
sweat of a body. It’s skin,
a series of piercings
you run a hand past imperfect flesh
When you get so swollen
I cover you
let yourself sleep