I want to live in a house made of poetry. Each wall, each corner, each crevice would be a stanza, a verse, a line that sings to my soul. In the night, I would sleep under blankets sewn from poetry, feeling the gentle caress of words as they lull me into dreams woven from the finest metaphors and similes. My dreams would be a tapestry of poetic imagery, a dance of rhythm and rhyme.

In the morning, I would bathe myself in poetry. The words would flow over me, cleansing my spirit and invigorating my mind. Poetry would seep into my pores and the spaces under my nails, touching parts of me that are almost never touched. I would wring poetry out of my hair and dry poetry from my skin, feeling the essence of each word linger on me.

I would open a wardrobe filled with poetry and dress for the day in a poem that felt just right for the season. Each garment would be a verse, each accessory a line that complements my mood. I would rub poetry on my face and neck, my dry hands and elbows, feeling the soothing balm of words. I would paint my lips with poetry, ready to speak in verses and rhymes.

I would run down a staircase of poetry, each step a line that propels me forward. In the kitchen, I would boil poetry in the kettle and pour it into a mug made of poetry. I would squeeze poetry out of the teabag until my poetry was strong enough, savoring the rich, robust flavor of words. In the fridge, I would find a bottle of poetry and pour poetry into poetry, warming it in the microwave.

I would sit down at a table made from poetry, eating poetry and drinking poetry. I would be careful not to burn myself with poetry, tasting the words in my mouth and feeling my stomach fill with the nourishment of verses. I would make a shopping list: poetry, poetry, poetry… Someone would remind me that we were running low on poetry, that they wanted some poetry, that there was only one poem left. I would add to the list: poetry, poetry, poetry… The list itself would be a poem.

I would burn poetry in the fire to warm myself, watching as the neighbors see broken poetry in the sky. I would breathe poetry, feeling the words fill my lungs and invigorate my spirit. I would walk around with poetry in my lungs, feeling the rhythm of each breath. I would be a poem, living and breathing the beauty of words.

© Beatriz Esmer