Scrubbles

Scrubbles

The things that back me are bulbous,
the elder trees by the metro line

the berries broken like a black bracelet,
ants inside the door, each with their boots on,

a light flu flickering
on inside someone else’s hallway.

I set up lines of alum and salt along hallways
and hope that it stops a secret string dead in its steps.

The other doors yield stem shadows,
I collect up combs and hair clips

look in the mirror and hold buttons
in front of my cord stump.