April Fox

I built a house
with a thousand rooms
so I could hide
No one would ever find me. 

I built a house,
all curved hallways and improbable angles
stairs that slanted slightly 
to the left
Exit doors that led to nowhere. 

I built a house with bars
on every window 
I held the only key
They only opened in. 

I built a house with a giant garden
everything I planted died and the seeds
that came 
from loose bird mouths and
rotting fruit
grew hearty roots and
stems like trunks and
vines that wound around me
held me in their leafy arms. 

The birds came and plucked the eyes
from all the sunflowers
I watched them come in
dark wings like shrouds
stealing what wasn't mine
I let them take
and take
and take
There are no scarecrows
in my garden. 

I built a house with sturdy walls, paper walls, walls of glass and lime and linen 
Walls that shifted when I walked
and kept me in. 

I built a house with a thousand rooms and none
with any purpose
Filled with mannequins that looked like me
In every corner, posed 
the way I should be posed,
dressed
the way I should be dressed,
mechanical lines spewing
from twisted plastic mouths
saying all the things
that I should say. 

I built a house
a catacomb 
and I, the tired caretaker
Held watch against the ghosts.