I’ve propped up my days on crystal and wood.
Sunlight licks them with virulence until the new paint dries
and I am left restless. Memories wither on the shelves.
I’m waiting for the ceilings to melt, the beams to rot,
and the plastic chandelier to come crashing down.
I don’t have Atlas these days
but I inhabit an inflatable globe.
And I have oceans. And I have oil.
And I have a matchstick effigy
arranged in the shape of a cracking man.
Snapping limbs echo through the halls like sonatas.
I secure my world behind inherited mahogany
and break the dusty Waterfords with my burdens.
But tonight, I’ll leave the door unlocked.
Trim the candles.
Loop the rusted cabinet key around their wicks.
Start the oven when the glass finally shatters –
welcome thieves with full plates and apocalyptic flame.