My Burgher DollhouseKim Young
This is the ladder. This is the latch. This is the night I fill the cabinet. With tiny incisors, pearls for knobs, silver crescents for nail-beds— a dark ladder of memory scraps. Like mothering or eating, I’ve grown adept at salvaging. This is my wagon. This is my scaffolding— my sheepskin and pork tin. My memory-arcade of lace, pots, miniature lots— of crying and omelets. This is my cabinet, kindling of unmet need— of over-mothering and under-eating, my tea cup throat still screaming. This is the ladder. This is the latch. This, the cabinet I douse with gas.
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