Friday, June 03, 2016
You say, look at me, and I say,
this is a house, and when you say
that bellboys cannot be counted
and preserved between the folds
of your neck, I say that we should
name the rooms on the sixth floor
after the presses and magazines
and professors who never liked us,
and you mention Little, Brown & Co.
and Dr. Greene, and suddenly
we are coughing colors, and you
tell me that you don’t appreciate
waking up to cold mugs of coffee,
unsweetened because this honey
is stilted with flies, black blood
mushrooming in our peach tea
like storm clouds, and I am sorry
about anemia, lost jobs, living
in a hotel room for fifty-one days,
stale mornings spent taping together
playing cards, turning to you
and pleading, this is a house.
This poem appeared in WordRiot blog.