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I found the attic early on,
making soft exit from a stormy night,
forsythia teeth on glass,
or perhaps when they were fighting.

It captured me in the way that it held sunlight.
It sang to me a song of creaking boards,
to pace a child’s dance with motes upon a ray;
naked toes stirring dust in pirouettes.

This place watched my growth from within,
marking lessons, both false and true,
in stacks of boxes; piles that build new cities
upon the trunks and crates of my foremothers.

They have left me all their trash and treasure.
They have shaped my back with this coarse canvas corset,
ivory fabric, iron stays and an embroidery of red;
a thousand needle pricks to the thumb.

I’ve given so many hours to the attic
that I was startled when a breeze came through.
Summer scented, blowing out webs,
it smudges ancient, clutching patterns.

My spirit starts to follow,
my fingers twitch and itch to rip at laces
but I hesitate. My torso, built of dandelion and thistle, shivers.
Yet I court the wind.


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