She is so small
or perhaps she only looks small
crowded inside her mountain
of stuff
newspapers
plastic bottles
lampshades
egg cartons
a fire hazard
a risk to herself
they say she is crazy
trapped by piles of junk
by the indignities
of her life
can’t they see
she is only trying to insulate herself
from the onslaught
of memories that won’t fade
despite the promise
of old age
I want to hold her
inside her cocoon
of bedlam
and assure her
that one day
she will wake up
a butterfly.