I'm practicing not saying things out loud:
sorting the positives from your sock drawer
of negative space & tied to the chore.
Extracting words by the heels of their sounds,
I stitch them into a blanket which I drape
over the electric fence around the stove.
The kettle screams in code. The window
is painted shut. Tsk tsking, you say
clumsy , from your director's perch. Scene shift:
tied to the chair, I sit & stitch sock seams,
repeating electric , mantric & smart-
mouthed, bound while the kettle steams. The room strips
of its color: uncoated. Light spills in reams,
blankets sound. Now the window is over your heart.
© 2006 Hanna Andrews