Mystery Spot
I lose my equilibrium
in the crooked house that is the mystery
of my body. My sense
of being who I am, left or down, unseen.
Nothing but a sideways idea
of up, of how upset
I am in the iris of my eye. An upset
in the center of equilibrium,
where downhill is not an idea,
but a crease. In my story,
I twist to an unseen
cellar, sensitive
to each stairwell scent.
Smoke settles in an upset
bucket, useless, kicked-over by unseen
sadness. No equilibrium
in this kitchen, only the mystery
of seasoned skillets. There is no ideal
body except in this new idea
of a sloping sense
of standing. I can't stand the mystery
corners, the memories upset
in their frames. I equate
footing with fear, an unseen
rope on a pendulum. How can I see
past perpendicular ideas?
Diving for equilibrium
through my feet, each sense
uproots gravity, reaches up.
Mystery:
a sudden stirring
of skin unseen.
A new place-setting upstairs
reflects bright circles. I am dazed
among the spoons, sensing
their stacked equilibrium.
Now equilibrium. Now mystery.
I count each sense: six unseen.
No house. No idea set.