The Snowbound Domestic

If I am the saw blade, you are the kerf, never the tree.
I wed myself to the gap, I crawl inside, I uncleave deep
beneath the distaff’s reach. I will salve my imaginary
wounds with buttercream frosting and forced-air heat.
I am the original bricoleur steeped in domestic machinery.
Let me whip up some whatchamadigs in my whirligig,
you see, I have everything we’ll need right here in the pantry:
bags of concrete, washers and bolts in tiny jars with baby
faces, driftwood, rock salt for the walkway in Far Rockaway.
Knee-deep disgust at all floaters on potable surfaces, grease
in soda, dust motes on water, an island of black mold floating
on tea, unknowable dark fleck on plump lip, needle ice
from the frost heave, and a scream-sing voice against
battleship clouds curtaining the window. Its raspy chant:
None of this is real, you have dreamed yourself a life.