The Wooden House Poem by Jupiter Rose

It used to be:
A delicate constitution, frayed nerves
perhaps hysteria…
as a woman (Frued accused)
you are prone to it

And these days:
Is it AdHd, Autism?
or the hypersensitive person..
my homeopathic doctor prescribes
some pills and suggests
this most likely

But it is irrelevant

Because the centre of me, cannot be pinpointed, it is too allusive
to be read and dissected

Instead it becomes something else
now it expands to become
my wooden room

It metamorphoses into crust filled
dishes, the sticky floor,
a mysterious puddle, fruit flies
already in languid pursuit

In fact every detail in the room are
consciousness infused
my runaway self blesses each object
godlike with
self reproaching prattle

The yellowing broccoli chastises itself
it should have gone in the fridge
apparently the household doesn't
compost anymore
Oh the indignity of being food waste!

The sink roof drives itself crazy with
discordant squeaking
it blames the racket on the wind
it must be tone death

The noise is deafening, my body is
curled up in a ball, rocking
In rhythm to cacophonous
whispers

But silence does eventually come:

Even in the greying water of too old
dishes, the room
cautiously intuit a change

What is hideous blurs
and the contour of beauty
finds shape

an emerging sun, the room is in awe

In the light I see myself
reflected,
now standing in the centre

Of this
wooden house