Sawteeth rasp through cedar planks,
rough-hewn, seeping
and whiskered at their newly cut butt-ends.
Slapped together as shelving in a cluttered
one-bedroom, they bow under
books, teeter, and test each L-bracket’s grip
on the wall. But their alternate function —
fragrance, that express
route to memory where hope chests breathed
strange in the master room, and shavings littered
a cage where a gerbil
was kept, fed, to piss and quiver
under a stunned boy’s
gaze until it ran itself out on the wheel.