“There’s a wooden folding table
But the leaves are in the attic
Under boxes and boxes of porcelain dolls.
I thought about their faces last night
And the faces of my family
And for some reason I was
Endeared to a pile of rocks,
To whom I do not have to speak.
For though they cry, I would
Never hear them, maybe
A whisper of Abraham.”
The sky is empty now of stars.
A box is full of heirloom jewels.
She took it upon herself to fold
The table, then folded herself
Upon the table. Whether fetal
Or failed, she’s veiled, entombed.
Petrified, “This attic womb,”
We hear her cry.