Do I Live In Houses

Do I live in houses, or do they seem to live
Through me? Though I'm never sure, it seems
With their odors wafting all around,
They fill in my chinks, as I polish their mirrors;
We know each other's ways, by now:
I recognize all their creaks and groans
Memory set up housekeeping, years ago
In a thousand different arenas;
Each object, is some memento
Can drag me away, unexpectedly;
So many afternoon interludes,
Of minutiae's faint innuendos;
Coming upon a secreted treasure;
Only to release me, to another
Studied sameness, of daylight's cover.

My mirrored face too, belongs here now
To bygone eras, the house contained
Of all those selves, coming and going,
And passing away; too quietly,
Into corners of rooms, and dresser drawers
And pressed tight between the oldest book's covers:
My life is a quilt, made of nothing more
Than windows, walls and slamming doors
Which can hold me still, or cast me forth
To yet more places, still breathe my name
I'm caught in all their reflections for
I'm just the jewelry, of this place
The momentary decoration, of stasis.
And there are other places I could go,
But they would never know me, half so well
As this shuttered mine, of self.

(written to Unkle - In A State)

by Patti Masterman

Comments (1)

nice poem like it very much do you mean(your uncle, in prison? ! ?)