Catie Rosemurgy lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her second poetry collection, The Stranger Manual, is forthcoming from Graywolf Press. She is the recipient of a Rona Jaffe Award for Emerging Female Writers and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. She teaches creative writing at The College of New Jersey. The Stranger Manual Catie Rosemurgy Try having a home exclamatory with lit windows and try to be what is lighting those windows. Try new curtains. Try to be what is new about the curtains. Make sure you have a home. You’re going to want to hurt yourself a little inside of something you own. Sooner or later you are a winged creature, a whirring sound. You         are the powder that made the wings work until the fire became your whole head. Your house is the enormous, upright state of flying. Your ownership of it is the glow disappearing behind the rising, castle-like dome of your thorax.   Each day is a section in your endless abdomen. You’re a unit of time, a greeting, an oxidized bead, the body hung in the air and infested with the buzz of life. Your instructions will be carried to the four corners of the earth, though they will alter slowly and become unrecognizable. You will become unrecognizable. Strange wing markings. You will land on a window and be called Atlas, Luna, Virgin Tiger, on a door and be Eyes of the Sphinx. Hush. Can you hear? Microscopic pieces of your face are being eaten in the shadows of great mountains.