Jenny Drai

Jane Eyre

A lot of voices
inside me.
A lot of lengths,
phrases of all turns,
sizes like yarn
bits and
string coiled in
wooly, fuzzy
skeins. Be
my wicker basket.
Be two
hands held high
as fleece is
drawn within
a new,
precarious
boundary. Be every-
one and every-
thing, every
method of
era and
dwelling. Explain
dormancy, a sensitive
air the fingers
bear within the
problem’s
heat. Break
the book’s
spine, the exoskeleton
of the book.
Be kind. Bear
good will, even to Aunt
Reed. A lamp
flares.
Glaring light.
What happens to
power in a
central body?
As if I
held shawls
to my face,
the attic
of the mind.