APOTROPAIC 

As a child I collected things
an awl, a pestle, a paintbrush stem 
crochet hooks, nut-picks, record needles 
the tongue of a bell.
shapes dispensed of purpose 
in the slant light on a sill 
they filled me with a concern like love 
which I multiplied by the number of the stars. Who 
else could understand and tend them their lost 
labor, their perfect incompleteness their certainty 
having nothing to do with the living. Later, I found 
that, In rooms of those recently dead by suicide, a 
kind of existence lingers on surfaces as on a note 
slipped under the door, blank except for a 
fragrance. 
They are strangers. I only see them in dreams. 
Don’t worry about me. A soul tasked 
with counting grains of sand 
or emptying the sea with a perforated limpet 
is not more sure of her future. 
My life is not without its secret pleasures.
Lately the hammering begins in the morning 
destroying the interior walls next door. 
A doctor bought the place. 
He took one look at me in the lobby
and asked if there was something wrong with my heart. 
That made me smile.
It has grown too strong for me 
pounding on like a ruthless oar 
rowed by ruthless hands. but 
my mouth is always wet with 
distant music.