Freud’s Cabinet
a virtual tour

‘I cannot let myself be stared at for eight hours daily.’

—Sigmund Freud, to Hanns Sachs

Small wonder it seems so petite,

first time you walk into the room.

Imagine the genteel women

who lay there long before you,

heads angled just so, raising their

inner tides only high enough

to where they might be seen.

Kilim, kilim everywhere,

to rival a fakir’s reception tent—

a silky Shekarlu

draped end to end on the chaise.

A wind-worn Kirsehir

tacked humbly to the wall,

cradle of ancient bedclothes.

And blanketing half the floor,

a grand Khorasan,

bayou of silent incantation.

Lying down for the first time here,

you do not need to know

the rugs were patterned

from memory, under barest sun,

to deflect hostile demons

and attract benevolent kin.

Or that woven birds

gliding on invisible lakes

are underworld intercessors

between you

and the man in silent listening

seated just beyond reach

of your inward-turning gaze.

The rugs pacify you.

Make you want to dance naked,

eyelids half-closed,

under canopies of empty light. 

Sharp wings unfold in your marrow

to penetrate carpet’s cryptogram,

surrogate for a faraway motherly lap.

The blood and pink of parturition

—insistent, vermilion desert yarn—

exhaust a field of deep night basins

sewn into the weft of soul.

Like pilgrims to Imam Reza’s shrine

you travel long and hard,

pursuing something like oasis

in arid cupfuls of loss.

Shards of evening sky draw you

to the weavers

as they pull up tent stakes,

embarking for winter’s pasture.

It takes them under an hour

to pack an entire nomad city,

then trudge steady over alpine crags

to palmy sweetgrass and sage.

It takes you a lifetime or more

to walk across the room

and lie here, just lie here

without looking at the man

who sits still as a loom

under the Turkmeni sun,

waiting for you to rise.

Lightwood, Summer 2022