Hoarding Disorder
BY JESSICA Q. STARK
“There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism.” –Walter Benjamin
My earliest memory of my father’s mother’s
house :: boxes and boxes piled to the ceiling
:: it felt like a fairy tale :: to the ceiling, in-
complete stories about her cruelty :: little
paths we made to get out the front door ::
the way she sang Here Comes the Sun to me
at the end of the driveway like a distant
planet :: my father’s flashes tucked under
the stars and commuter traffic :: money
abstracting emotion from the equation of
living :: from the why of a sadist’s pleasure
and the problem of children and inheritance
:: the hiss of lack at the top of these piles
and piles of clothes :: we wear it :: the
knowledge :: piling, piling :: the sweater
from the garment finger, pricking :: the
suicide net of loss among the winning :: the
content moderators sifting violence :: the
consumption fueling wildfires fought by
consequences, underpaid :: the violent
metallic ore, veined outward from the child
miner, a collective mind :: extracted :: here,
in Alhambra, California :: where this house
once held terror :: where this house quietly
filled with trash :: I’d like to say we emptied
it :: disappeared the debt :: but my neighbor
papers his windows :: tells me he has guns ::
my friend stockpiles provisions for more
fairy tales :: sweet, ethical survivors :: the
extremity is living daily with amnesia :: the
agony we box and label :: far away :: when
they sold the house :: I wondered where it
all went :: my father’s memory :: the storied
trinkets and dust :: a cardboard archive of
want :: its inheritance of shadows :: I feel
crowded with it :: her need to keep
everything :: even pain :: especially pain
