The Slap: photogram on paper, 6 x 6 in. Celeste Goyer
Dead wood and plant stems,
saliva, all these open hallways.
I am writing to say I had the dream again.
You’ll know it. But instead of my head lying there,
it is a nest, paper comb once hidden in the eaves
plucked out and placed on your sleeping chest.
I am going to say it’s the architecture
that did it, buzzed a path to the subconscious,
built it in a day, a home and the eggs and
everything else. I am writing to say this
is not my first offering, this is not my
heart offering. It’s something found
while cleaning up. It’s crawlspace dust,
attic must, a hawk’s call
and something else in the distance.
If you whisper, if it buzzes, I’ll hear it
from here. Keep still. Perceived peril
is a threatened sting, buzz saw song.
Keep quiet, love. Enough has been ruined.