after With Hidden Noise. Marcel Duchamp. Ball of twine between two brass plates, joined by four long screws, containing unknown object added by Walter Arensberg. 1916.
I wrap my miniature, miscarried baby
in fine white linen then
fine softest red wool, which I wrap
in a miniature box of thin wood, the kind
with a one-way track and an invisible catch
that slides into place then snaps shut
forever and forever. And I wrap the box
in packing paper and twine
like a gift. I suspend
the miniature package with red silk thread
over my side of the bed
so my miniature, miscarried baby
and everything I’ve wrapped around her
can haunt me properly. Then I cut
the whole bed, chest of drawers,
wingback rocker, mirror, painting on the wall,
and the walls themselves,
the whole room, out of my house
and put it up in a room in a museum
where I go to sleep at night
leaving traces of myself on the things in the room
(hair on the pillows, new dust made out of my skin)
and alchemizing my small suspended package
into something entirely new,
something entirely, entirely
other than what is was.
