At What Point Does The House Become The Museum?
Eleonor Botoman
The unnecessary way Back home, pearled and humid nights On the longshore Back to beaded string of houses with yellow hare’s eyes snapped open, pacing the Length of olympic-sized kitchens The question about why i don’t call any more Exact verbs too much for my smoke-heavy mouth Listen: the sand has always been here Pressed into our hairlines Eyes stretched wide & sun-fasted Lord and savior bless this mattress Filmy with ocean-dry The knee-cap sized medusas Evaporating under the sun as you In your borrowed bathing suit Shovel the coastline into open graves and palaces
Recanting
Lena Rubin
Not knowing myself : I can know what occupies me, at least : which tenants : and their character : and how : and what shape : and what crevices : and what negative space : and what blood is left blue : dark : and unsucked : and what tissue : supple : and pulsing:
(cracked and poured : out : it all spills : unboiled yolk : paper towels and clorox : for the kitchen tiles : shaking you : awake : and your density : and my sweat : and your sweat : and my weightlessness)
And blame not myself : if I do not know you : and blame not your tissue : nor your own : strange tenants : but the strangeness of knowing : and the distance from strangeness : to knowing : and our weak legs : and our appointments.