A Word is Not a Home

  

 

A Word is Not a Home

A word is not a home
but we set our tables

between its walls,
cook meals, annoy

friends, abuse ourselves.
Sometimes I misplace

one, and can’t find
my house, much less

the window’s desk
or the chair behind it.

But if I wait, something
always takes form in the fog,

an arm, a ribcage, a feathered
hope struggling to emerge.

Inept, I take comfort
in these apparitions,

accept their offerings,
lose myself in mystery,

find shelter there
in the hollowed curves.

 

 

5 thoughts on “A Word is Not a Home

  1. COMPLETELY identify with this! Just came from birdblind watching a very familiar birs – name eluding! – in desperation I inquired – husband seemed tolerant of my slip – titmouse went on hopping about not even caring if he had a name to remember!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Ha! I’ve had the same experience! Arthur Sze asks, in a poem, if we know a bird’s name in ten languages do we know any more about the bird? A couple of days ago Stephanie say three species of woodpeckers at one feeder, all within a few moments of the others.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Oh, this describes cognitive dysfunction to perfection, including the part about anxiety only making it worse. My home, when it appears, sometimes looks like Laputa, which is beats my little one-level ranch to hell anyway. ^_^

    Liked by 1 person

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