In my storage room, there’s a girl.
She speaks in diary and sings in
compact discs. Her radio is the blue
plastic bin that she is in. No speaker, airwave, just dust and cinderblock.
Occasionally I visit her, turn on
the energy saving lightbulb and
marvel at the mess of us that
bulges from beneath lids, and hangs down from the shelves.
I am her. She is me. But our
veins pump something different, our
lungs breathe dust, only hers in
bowls and mine in particles. I can leave anytime.
I want to set her free, to show her
how outside the storage room walls
some old roots crawl against them, trees
die, ripples of fungus eat their trunks, and it’s beautiful.
But she is made of plastic, twisted
rigid, her expression caught just so,
printed in stagnant font, the color of dried
blood from alive-times. She’s a hollow pistol brimming with readiness.
I have buried her many times on
the bottom shelf, then moved her
up a level, she shifts like that but never
joins us upstairs in the kitchen, where real music
floods us from the Cape Cod yard-sale radio and
makes us dance around while we cook pancakes.