All of this time spent 

making and remaking home
in my latest self-image, 

into bouquets of dried memories 
laid out alive before me;

turning down the bed, 
like an envelope full of flowers, 

they who sealed off the windows
for pleasure-viewing, 

while I left no pillow unturned 
to crack their pleasure, 

writing in schoolgirls’ hand, 
“You are always welcome here,” 

and my name in every iteration
—cursive, backwards, all caps, 

with the last name of my first 
crush— All of this time spent,

and for what?  

With an eye to tradition, and a constant integration
of the shapes, materials, and symbols of my history, I
endeavor to create a domestic interior, as sentimental
as it is faithful to what I see when asked to picture the
room of my mind, a space where I am both forever alone,
and with everyone who I have ever loved, and will ever
love, and there is no ordering of things, people or time.