The Attic is an Umbrella             

by Jen Schneider

 
with no springs but ample shade.
wingspan surprisingly wide,
metal clasps not yet retired --
 
a blend of weeds and wild things 
 
copies of Where the Wild Things Are,
Goodnight Moon, and Ferdinand
open to consume (conflicts
unresolved, plots unclear)
despite broken spines 
 
Sign Here!
 
contracts and constructs
clauses and canopies
 
and of infinite capacity for 
tears and torn everything – 

           a yellow slicker, size small, arms interlocked.
           photos of phantoms and fanatics. 
           DNA strands with lobster-claw clasps and faux beads.
            acid-washed denim with cherry patches on each knee
            overalls with golden threads on (s)worn seats.
            stuffed bears with no hearts.
            plucked sunflowers, now dry.
            chipped ceramic plates, three generations displaced.
            birth certificates marked Do Not Return to Sender.
            sealed envelopes with unfamiliar names penned in faded ink.
            undeveloped Kodak rolls. Caps closed.
            overexposed MRI films in yellowed envelopes.
            moth wings -- singular and tongue-tied.
            mice seeking twice-daily feedings.
            feral readings and nursery rhymes 
 
the attic is an umbrella –
 
its wooden rafters deceptively strong
its floorboards recently wired. a router
of some kind. wires conspire
alongside instinct
 
When!
 
a small hole in the far-left corner grows,
simultaneously light and shadow, origins
unknown -- a hungry crow, termites, mama
birds. shelter both proper and depersonalized.  
a welcome landing, unnamed
inhabitants consume all things,
 
I’m hungry! 
 
both wild and (re)tried,
amongst
items documented in handsewn
labels along collars and size-two Keds,
 
never (not yet) worn – 
 
the cotton blanket, knit by hand,
remains folded, in fetal form,
 
secure in blue Tupperware. hidden
from the impending storm
 
           Seek shelter! 
 
the attic is an umbrella –
ripe of unresolved conflict.
 
           last-place jerseys (tanks)
           keychains to locked doors
           stolen things (time)
           shells from unwelcome shores
           denim shorts (poorly sized) 
 
plot and pinch points breached
pop-up storms and breech births.
 
its metal spokes
rusted and untrusted. 
its contents soaked.
 
a puddle pools
beneath my feet of cotton
socks. the air cools. a bird
stirs. the sun winks in dotted
lines. the floorboard creaks.
 
Again!
 
I’ll patch none of it, I think
as the bird returns to sleep
and the realtor waits,
 
as if I could if I tried,
 
            Coming!   
 
the attic is an umbrella --
of shafts and springs
 
instead, I sit on a seat
of construction paper, legs
crossed, and contemplate
the shelter of places once
known -- forever young. 
 
 
* * * * *

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Her most recent collection, 14 (Plus) Reasons Why published with free lines press, is now available.