Photo by Anonymous
Left: The Diagram of a Secret
Mark Fleckenstein
Left: here in the past, behind the behind,
a sumptuously furnished room so full
it’s empty. An upholstered desert. If bereft,
break something meaningful, any shard
of family, a kitchen knife or snapshot.
The window’s invitation, come here, come
here, cuts air. The room, broken at the joints,
dry wall, bent nails, a carpenter’s suggestion.
One wall at a time. Mind the load bearing wall,
the underwhelmed light, when it all comes down.
Whatever is left resembles a secret, one scar’s biography.
Mark Fleckenstein
Left: here in the past, behind the behind,
a sumptuously furnished room so full
it’s empty. An upholstered desert. If bereft,
break something meaningful, any shard
of family, a kitchen knife or snapshot.
The window’s invitation, come here, come
here, cuts air. The room, broken at the joints,
dry wall, bent nails, a carpenter’s suggestion.
One wall at a time. Mind the load bearing wall,
the underwhelmed light, when it all comes down.
Whatever is left resembles a secret, one scar’s biography.