I want to go deeper,

all the way down

to the cellar of the house

I grew up in. I go there

in my head, the same head

that easily cleared the low ceiling

above the dark, narrow staircase,

the lightswitch on the left,

the banister beginning halfway down

on the right, the aluminum nosing

of the treads groaning metallically

as I take the steps one at a time,

counting them as I go: one, two, three,

four, five, six, seven, eight–I think there were

ten altogether, though I could be overshooting it

or undershooting it. I can’t

remember exactly but I can imagine

(imagination is memory) the exact feel

of the newel-–small, rounded, wooden—

and the squeak-rub sound it makes

as I grasp it briefly like the hand

of a dance partner and twirl myself around it,

jumping off the last step with a flourish

and landing on the linoleum tiles

of the floor of the basement

of my childhood, the furnace room

(fire-breathing, verboten) to the left,

the laundry room (sweet-smelling, white)

to the right, and one central cylindrical

vertical pole silently supporting everything

above. I put my arms around it

lovingly. I clamp my legs around it

tightly. And I embrace it like a fire pole,

replacing my tight grip with a looser grip

to allow myself to descend.