*

in my little white home i am in a slump. i look around. all these possessions, all these things, are little fangs, death markers, my home one compact little memorial park. remember when they used to be called cemeteries, now even gravestones are called family monuments, like these things, monuments to me. i stare at the silver faucets, my dresses, my shoes, my new sheets, my books, my outsized spice rack - thyme leaves, time leaves - and wonder how they got here, how i have arrived at this point of clutter.  these things, things, things, my mind is shouting and i hurl pictures, clothes, earrings, wine glasses, into the kitchen trash and, gripped immediately by a zinging, many-knuckled panic, pick them out again, hurry, hurry, one by one, wipe them off, put them back away, behind their doors, in their drawers, sit with my cat, wish i had tv, breathe, breathe.