The Soul is a Maximalist Room

By: Ilona Lowe

Scalloped images in monotones

Sunk to the bottom of thread boxes

In between journal pages

Amidst drawers of unorganized stationary

Swimming alongside birthday cards

Words bleached

In sun exposed pages of notes and lexicons,

Or eroded by spilled milk

Distant travels displayed;

Trophies of ivory, bead, brass

Uniforms no longer worn hung proudly

Or perhaps reside in closets of moth fed fabric

My grandmother’s doilies

And her grandmother’s too

Laid on shelves and escritoires

Catching dust in lace of white

Texts of great wars

Strewn across bureaus

Spelling out battles I hadn’t seen

And the ones I fought too hard in

Grand piano ajar

The metronome ticking on

Though my eyes cannot read sheet music any longer

The room hasn’t forgotten

Melodies reverberating through armatured walls

A sea of empty glass bottles

Repurposed into candle holders

Endless ashtrays,

All overflowing with lipstick stained cigarette ends

Records worn out beyond repair

And cassette tapes in piles

Every couch and bed

I had left my love in,

Sweat stained spots

Gleaming still

Any paper that has ever spelled my name

Postcards, candy wrappers, tissues stained in blood

Tapestries of great fables

Stitches in gold

Scriptures in foreign tongues

Jewelry boxes

And all my lockets of forgotten love

Half remembered rage

Warp the metal

On the great map of this maze

No detail left uninscribed

The soul is a maximalist room

Overflowing, moonlit

Damned

Yet mine