Matryoshka

No house of self, my little Matryona
No more whispers of the war you can hear in there,

No wallpaper with open-winged eagles,
Their beaks repeating themselves.

No empty corners for a comma dalliance,
Umpah, umpah, er ah, twiddler of thumbs.

Neither are there curtains with toy drums
To draft a feeling for the time of day.

Would be relief. Would be sweet.
Open you and there you are,

By diminishing returns.
No in-a-gadda-da-vida, honey.

No sting of cerebellum inside its case.
Rattle you and every door unhinges,

Pop and the cat is purring,
The top whirring and that bird is out.

You never rust from springs.
Countless Springs.

And the voices you hear,
No longer come from things.

Copyright © 2009 Teresa Pfeifer All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission