Happiness As, In, Around a Dresser

Furniture converses in pig Latin, 

Low and with tiny clicks of the tongue.

Chair dances with stool as nightstand with dresser,  

From the first beam of a rotation 

To the clambering

Of a routine dinnertime, alien occupation. 

The window of the day in which wood grain twirls 

And paint chipped metal spins, 

Is the start and finish of any understood existence of culture,

In the house that I forced connection to..

A letter posed as lost in the mail, 

Some days I would barge in. Everything becomes still, but traces linger.

A vast room with a bashful dresser, who has tucked itself away 

In the furthest coordinate. 

Drawers are telling and intimate, when given the sneaky chance to 

Open. 

Matchbox sized capsules layered in between chewed at wool sweaters,

Like bits of mica crusted in concrete. 

The dresser grants me permission, and I open it to find

A tooth once bundled in floss, strung to a hefty door,

Another that once, for the longest, ignored its own 

Notice of eviction,

Continually making its bed, I knew it did not want to leave,

In the way I did not want to stay.

A slew of them, who had all known each other’s stories.

Stories that I know that they know, but

I was not sure if the dresser knew? 

You lived in me five years and have orbited for more.

Muffled moments of a thirteen-year-old who knew it all,

Lulls of a twenty-year-old who knows half, 

a quarter, 

none really at all.

I dream of rhythmic clinks as I watch speckles of enamel kiss the floor,

I dream of something synthetic, something that does not know me.

I bite down on neons, hoping they do not recite my seemingly coded history.

I want to feel every hair on my body grazed, 

Do I? 

I want to feel every hair on my body grazed by 

A neon 

That has known nothing for five minutes.

Encroached between colliding planets of wool and cotton, are things that have lived within for five

And have seen fifteen. 

Thank God, you left me at five, for in this life, specks of me can

Exist naturally and beautifully cynical in a sandbox,

That they know as a desert.

One Circular Window That Beams, Single bed machine knit, 710 stitches, 2103 rows