For you she builds a house of spices and sleigh beds
of anise and armrests, of typewriters happily clacking
their teeth at the blowsy dawn. She builds boxes and ladders,
kneelers and coffins, stocks hardtack and swatches of cloth.
There is a history of horses and husbandry here,
a history of holiness and excess, of morning and mourning,
of days that never wake. For you she builds a body, a list
from hip to waist, a weight in breasts best set to anchor
the architecture of your mouth. On leaving she
lives in a biscuit, peeking through the gnawed
out windows at the robins who dumbly clutter her roof.
She is vaulted and volleyed by the long-armed god
of her father; holed up and hoping you’ll come rob
the stockpile she’s been hoarding for years. Her letters to
you are written in steam, apparent only on winter nights
when the windows drift open. For you she builds a house
of hallways, one easy to wander when she is gone.