Moving In

by em jollie

Sap, rising in the trees, quickening
pulse of Earth in Spring.
We had to tell the six and eight leggers
to move out. Played my drum,
made a pact, & they were gone.
The dust bunnies gathered
conferencing in corners
are another matter altogether.
They whisper of the woman
who lived here before us,
her sorrow collected in cobwebs.
So we open
to witness what she carried,
and invite in the sun
the grace to draw new spirals
of light through windows.
We plant
seeds in trays, fling glass open
in the swirling air we roll
new paint onto walls
so we may live in the sea
in the fire
of the women who have come
before us here. I have lived

so long in apartments
I don’t know what to do
with all the space, the quiet
except to remember
growing as a child in a modular
where the world was as big
as every inch of woods
I could find. To be honest
I don’t miss the thin walls
there, or any other dwelling
I’ve known this side of night.
I don’t miss the drunken shouts
boombox blasting salsa until 4 am
(confusing me: to sleep, or to dance?),
gunshots blossoming on streets
below. I do miss
the elder Women, wrapped in scarves,
layers of skirts & beadwork,
who would understand
how the ancestors gather
in drumbeats
around this cabin each darkness.


Journal, Volume 2 Issue 5