My Burgher Dollhouse

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.