As we work a man's life disappears.
The carpet comes up, leaving
strips of tacks to crowbar.
It takes a special tool to remove the solid
layer of scrap-yard grime from the shower walls.

We paint. I take comfort in the bathroom's
tight dimensions. And latex mistakes will
come off the honeycomb tile with Windex.

Under my brush the world becomes as migraine
white as the halls Alice ran through
in my dreams one long summer.
She was lost and confused and I'd awake
feeling it was my fault--as if I'd left the baby in the car.
I didn't know it then, but that was the summer
she returned to Cornell.

Down from the ladder, dizzy
from height and light--
as if I'd stared straight into the sun--
I pause to listen to the shushing
of Jeremy's roller in the hall,
inches away on the other side.

This is anti-Alice work--
the priming is not the negligee--
the white meant to conceal history.
Make a lie for the new tenant.

Or is it not Alice? This a shiny canvas
gessoed for a new work of life?

But paint chips whisper the secret
of this door's fine craftsman lineage.
Maybe it began as a fir.
Fine wavy lines plead for me to strip
naked the beige,
pink, and green shells--ready the wood
as it was in the beginning.

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Wilma Weant Dague writes, parents, and works as a paraeducator for special needs preschoolers in Kansas. Her education brings her much joy, but little financial compensation. Her writing has appeared in The Writer's Hood, The Hiss Quarterly and others. She is considering another shot at an mfa or an education degree. Would like help killing "-ings."

Alice Fulton is Wilma's muse.

E-mail: wilmad at charter dot net
 

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autumn 2006 | kaleidowhirl