I’m moving all my shit outside because there’s no more room for it inside.
Every bed and bath sits permanently pregnant with tokens of my past.
The bulk of my backyard brims with belonging, a lost and found for the ages.
My back is strained and my calves are dusty with the cough of an old mattress
dropped to the dirt.
I’ll someday soon run out of room in the spiral—
that’s what I’ve named the mass of owned shit.
It starts at the edges of the yard, where concrete bleeds
into grass and heavy crows hop to and fro looking for plastic bags to eat.
It travels like a lazy river around the perimeter until closing the loop,
bringing us one layer deeper into this mess of mine.
Not anymore. Now it belongs to the heavy crows.
I have a hunch it’s where they keep their stashes, their own hoards.
A busted dresser drawer, a crispy faux tree, a thrifted catch-all to cradle their shiny offerings. They’re just as bad as I am.
Hannah Tracy is a poet from San Diego, California. She values prose that feels like stubbing your toe on a bed frame, or landing on a mattress made of clouds. In between highs and lows, you can find her watching Youtube for cats, or maybe just on instagram @unfinished.bug.