There are many
rooms in her house.
Some of them contain men who can fly.
She phones them from the kitchen on a mobile;
she asks, “Do you want a cup of tea?”
She whisks things in a bowl, spins all her clothes,
presses buttons discriminately.
She takes flowers to the church and disappears;
sometimes we have lost her for days.
She creates a story from coloured crosses,
constructs soft cushions during eclipses,
bakes spells in the oven. Her chocolate cake
transforms the eater into a sponge.
Foreign professors visit the house
(we think they came down the secret stairs).
Someone has given her postcards and poems
and filled the freezer with blackberries. |
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