Ooey amber drips back to the jar unless the spoon turns like there’s glass on a pipe. Water warmed on a stove top filled up to the brim, is ready once the Chantal kettle whistles. Two azurepaisley mugs can be grabbed from the cabinet with knots in the panels that make up a face. If you’re short, you’ll need two steps up from the stool. Some will take three with one knee on the counter. The tall mugs, like beer steins, but slightly refined. Filled up with concoctions of liquidcreamhoney and held at the handle until contents drip cold. Sip, slurp, dunk, dip, and laid out to dry. I’ll dye that ripped paper that’s off to the side. White dresser top stained with a slight rosy halo. Collected and kept safe to accrue and grow. Staples and strings severed without hesitation, I was lined up and laid out without plan for existence. Unfolded and furloughed from my leafy insides, then unfolded again to flatten my hide. I tiled the floor, fleshyblush over white. Then fused at my grout joints, I began to take flight. I hung from the ceiling from a black wiry strand, masking a chair that sat two figures dancing. But that wasn’t quite right. Torn apart once again, with some glue still attached, I became a new form and started from scratch. Bent, crimped, curled, and tucked until I piled up tall. Separated by sevens, there was a plan after all. Coptic stitch bound by the black wiry mane; collected and cared for, and slowly obtained. Now I sit as a codex, as a buildup of time, to reminisce and recall as the years pass me by.
