a narrow discipline

i have
in my bathroom
a hidden place where
i scatter words.

it’s true!

behind my old pink mary kay bag,
between it and the wall,
there is a space, narrow,
a lane of sorts,
where i hide pen and paper.

at night, before i go to bed,
after i brush my teeth
(a narrow row of sorts)
i take paper and pen out,
sit on the rim of my green bathtub
– a narrow ledge –
and write a poem.

lit, often, by six candles:
mothers of the north, east, south and west,
mother of the centre,
father observer.

when i am done,
the small, thin piece of paper
and the pen
just vanish
in that narrow lane of words
behind the bag, right by the wall.
the candles are extinguished,
and i go to bed.

those little seeds of words sleep in the dark.

the other night, i found forty-one
word-flowers grown in that cozy place.

isabella mori
counselling in vancouver

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