Catalogue of Missing #4

Kristen Lenea Ryberg

Catalogue of Missing #4

Wash the stairs to nowhere; be sure they are free of splinters
a sliver of wood can lead to sepsis if someone cannot be paid to pull 
it out and you can no longer bend to tend the simple wound.

Keep a stick of charcoal by the bed to trace the branch-rayed silhouette 
projected on the bedroom wall during the full moon, it will give you 
something to do, while navigating the night.

Make a firefly-headdress of battery operated flashing lights, those 
tiny ones you can buy now. Hold the nautilus you love 
to your right ear; follow its encoded directive.

Dispel the density of being alone
make it enough. Go back to your writing 
make lemongrass tea, settle in.

The rain is constant; the dog licks your hand 
the morning will be a chance to call that friend 
or volunteer, too late to foster a child, but not kittens. 

Remember, Forest Man, on YouTube?  He planted 
trees, reforested an area larger than Central Park; elephants 
and tigers have returned. You are the same age as he is.

Your windowsills are cracked, cannot be painted 
or patched again; The flower beds and garden remain.
The neighbor's children--who you hoped would know 
you like an Aunt, are grown--wave from their car.

The yew’s roots have invaded the foundation should have been
removed sooner. And he is unreachable. The last time 
you tried exposure therapy, opened the tote of photos in the basement,
the images left you in a dark room for days.

Renovate the barn into a studio.  Remember art is something left to save you.