You are surrounded by clever women                                         
Who hold the doll to their ear                                                 
And nurse a baby. They too write poems,                                              
But with one hand. You, on the other hand:        
A door in darkness. Behind it                                             
Darkness. Inside                                                                 
You sit in a paper armchair.                                 
A moat of black water surrounds the house               
Chiseled in hard silence.
A narrow hallway leads to the room where sleeping is done.
The bed is a stump, trunk of severed tree.
On the refrigerator - a note:  Call Ana.                     
Need to buy apples.                                                       
Do not show the gallows to the guests.
Something weighs heavy on the stone table.              
Something untangles the fingers, unties them from the hand.       
You pass through the rooms, checking escape routes               
Like a fireman: grapes in the fridge,                                      
Push buttons on the telephone,
The dog’s pupils,     
Little scaffolds in the medicine cabinet.
Electricity flows through walls. Blood flows through wrists.
You get up. With a fluttering hand you erect in the air           
A spider-web shelf, for holding                                    
The books you will write.