Ode to the Rug on My Living Room Floor 

except that it isn’t even in my living room 

but an office in which we crust away at desks

separate as the inch deep footprints 

nestled permanently on edges of sunbleached fibers

my man brought the rug in by himself 

memories of a life etched before our time

crunching as it unfurled, the rug opened 

a life for us to breathe in

through fiber from the soft pile

revealed by touches of oil, tears, food stains

it will remember each step by carbon

if nothing else remains 

warehouse boots, spilled ink well, candles that light our foyer 

breeding an industrial gourmand 

the mingled scents moaning as if to say

I’ve been expecting you…come on in 

drool of my lover’s mother 

she crawled on our inherited rug

an infant with the curiosity of our cats

whose litter litters the outskirts of this dirt-haven

I sat in the corner of the aged rug 

where he loved me the night we first moved in 

stared into the keyhole of our bathroom door

to where I wished we had

my splintered ovary leaked atop wool flowers

couldn’t move, felt like I’d been chained to a radiator 

all night the sounds of the shower underwritten 

by the light prose of his body 

I imagined myself as the hoarfrost on the inoperable window

its clouded glass melting with the steam off skin 

the condensation reached my ear’s inner wool with a whisper 

you can make this place clean