My tiny aunt was always afraid
she might be blown away. She fluttered about
in the draft of her house chasing snails
that slid under the door. Each night she climbed
a steepening stair to lie beneath the stars’
straining light, hidden in sodium glare.
Her four room cave in the shade of passing
buses, where daylight goes
to snooze, with two knotted dollies
standing guard in a chair
and a wardrobe of tiny shoes.
You must have left the door ajar
the night the snails brought you the light
of stars on their backs, for the wind got in
and swept your house and blew you clean away.