The Dream

The attic.
Dark,
cold.
I lift
the corner
of a rug.

Seed trays
underneath.
I look at
the seedlings—
struggling.

Belladonna
I think.
But no.

On closer
inspection
they’re ribes
afterall.

The Meaning

attic
A higher space of insight and memory.

seed trays
Hidden, forgotten growth. At first I mistake it for poison, but on closer look—it’s food. What I feared was dangerous is simply misunderstood.

What Lingers…

What if fear clouds what’s simply waiting to nourish?

What if curiosity is all it takes to turn poison into fruit?

---

Marginalia

In The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle, I’m desperate to get into the attic. It’s painful work. In How the Fuck Do I Water This Fig? I tend to what’s growing out of the ceiling, regardless.

Now, with access to the attic, I’m reassured: not everything is as frightful as I expected. The attic might even have something useful to share.
It reminds me how often people who’ve lived through torrid experience become lanterns for others in that same place. Trauma can be a site — not to remain trapped in, but to guide others through.