Talin Tahajian: No Vacancy by

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.