Tiny House; mother in the morning on the shore, thinking
Everything is close and touchable—
your dishes and books and lamps.
The dual purposed beds and chairs
are prudent. Your mind, too, is here,
in this small space. Making it
easy to reach, inescapable.
You think that this sparse house
will be a capsule of virtue,
and that all the wide walls of the past
left room for fault.
Tall ceilings and closets seem silly.
You think nothing can be lost,
so you reach out and touch
both walls with the tips of
your fingers, feel how close
it’s all become.
mother in the morning on the shore, thinking
She was there, mind hanging upside-
on the edge of that small cliff-down-with
arms stretched, suspended,
(you would say “thinking”
I would say “white-knuckled”)
looking out at the water. That sea
looked comfortable, a big blue bed. Big.
She liked the feel of stones on her feet and she thought
of her children sleeping in their non-sea beds,
they’d wake, begin a day with breakfast and a fire.
Then they would tramp out the door
(You would say “angry”, I would say
“with dew still on them”)
off to school, eager
for a notion, blackberry-sweet ideas
about what it would be like to stay back
with their mother back and standing with her.
The older children wondering
(You would say “wistful,”
I would say “needle-and-thread thoughts”)
about who would leave and not return for years,
who would think about metaphors
for cliffs or beds or seas
but never write them down.