I dream of taking to my childhood home with a fork and a knife.
I dream of carving at the windows that never opened,
of lapping at the grout which stained the borders of kitchen sink, of devouring
old photo albums with a glass of milk in hand –
I wonder if the photographs would stick to my teeth like gum.
broken plates
crosses in closets
wild parakeets from Northern Australia –
whiskey glasses
spinning chairs
chained armoires
filled with Father’s
Father’s things
I would
chew on the dildos in Mother’s closet, ‘toys’ my little sister called them one day, Lonely Barbies in the night. I would swallow the memories of Lonely Mother, with Loving Husband, the man existing always in different time zones across the sea. I remember my ear to her door, my Lovely Mother crying with her Lonely Barbie Dolls, crying to the song of the crickets outside.
I would swallow
it all.
Know this:
a web without its spider is not an abandoned piece of property,
but instead a ghostly graveyard for the arachnid who once spun it. For the spider will never
abandon its home once its web is woven. Even if the threads are damaged,
the arachnid will not leave until the web has been
devoured,
digested,
recycled within hard shell.
I envy the spider for its ability
to eat at their memories –
to swallow their houses, their histories,
on silver silken thread.
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