Terri Brown-Davidson – Ⅲ
Contamination
Do you crave contamination? my husband demands.
His red-rimmed eyes, a bloodhound’s, track me
across the Legos-littered carpet where, casting aside
the effluvia of our child, I’ve primped, stacked, arranged
six embroidered pillows my neighbors discarded
for fresher digs and domains,
their cross-country quest for new nirvana
undiking glittering floodwaters of cast-off armada:
ragrugs and baubles, hardbacks and lava lamps
the dreamer in me tracks as avidly
as any hunter eyeing an exotically silver wolf
across acres of blue-iced tundra
though more quietly, while my family sleeps, I dip a mental pen
in imagination’s ink, rock cross-legged on six ragged pillows
and keep writing through densening tangles
of art and longing. Sadness and dementia.
Do you crave contamination? my husband demands.
His red-rimmed eyes, a bloodhound’s, track me
across the Legos-littered carpet where, casting aside
the effluvia of our child, I’ve primped, stacked, arranged
six embroidered pillows my neighbors discarded
for fresher digs and domains,
their cross-country quest for new nirvana
undiking glittering floodwaters of cast-off armada:
ragrugs and baubles, hardbacks and lava lamps
the dreamer in me tracks as avidly
as any hunter eyeing an exotically silver wolf
across acres of blue-iced tundra
though more quietly, while my family sleeps, I dip a mental pen
in imagination’s ink, rock cross-legged on six ragged pillows
and keep writing through densening tangles
of art and longing. Sadness and dementia.