Curtains

For weeks I have been waking up
in the living room curtains,
their shrug and frump,

and there
I have not met a single person.

In the folds where I am rolled,
some mornings I have seen the Andes,
strands of wax, and in the stitches

once I made out a line of ants
carrying their minute burdens.
Everything that appears possible

can be turned into something impossible.
If a face appears, if I recognize a posture,
I raise a hand to flatten it.

A tassel bunches the damask
like the tie of a robe,
but when it’s loosened

no legs fall out, no eye,
no heart drops
from its monstrous socket.

Copyright © 2008 Sarah J. Sloat All rights reserved
from Whiskey Island Magazine
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission