Path A.
I imagine a nook
where I sit among a tribe of pillows surrounded
by moroccon lamps and a hookah from which
I will smoke green apple tobacco.
I imagine gauzy curtains and thin gold bangles tinkling on my arms and
a sari of fuchsia and gold.
I imagine it soundless.
Air cool and crisp
I am leaning against a white marble column writing poetry with a quill.
Path B.
Inside the house, silence has scattered.
Found itself in cracks in the walls, between the thick couch cushions
next to quarters, twigs of cereal
and a glob of my hair.
Silence sniffs around corners and retreats
into the shadow under the armoire,
into the back of the lingerie drawer and
even the space between the dog’s crate and the wall.
Silence stays far away from the nursery where the baby screams
and where I haven’t slept a full night in months and
where my new notebook’s uncracked spine remains untouched.
The rocking chair rocks where
if I simply had not swallowed,
I’d be curled up in that corner nook
smoking – a lady’s carved ivory pipe
drinking in my loneliness and
dreaming of nurseries.
One hand on my barren stomach and
one hand on the quill.
Alisha Davlin earned her MFA from NYU’s creative writing program in 2002. She has published in “Ginosko” and “South Jersey Underground”. She is from Louisiana and currently working on a novel while teaching at an independent school in North Jersey where she lives with her scientist husband and notoriously naughty wheaten terrrier, Lulu.
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