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It is a kind of surgery
tonight,
the moon
laid out like an instrument
in the driveway
with bottles and needles and nipples
disinfected by years,
the miniature clothes of a person
I no longer know,
and pictures
peeled
from the scrapbook in the hallway drawers.
At daybreak,
the house will be empty,
plain
as the pruned pine in the front yard,
stripped of its guts
like a stick figure.
Among the disarray,
I find my first spoken words,
written down
on a line, a page stuffed in an envelope,
a memorial, a book.
Reading, I realize that my life began,
not in a womb, but in a journal,
in a flurry of letters,
in the labored flow of ink.
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