Photo by Isengardt
This house is screwing us
with its cracked plaster, slanting
floors. Open doors
are a good thing unless they don’t
fit into their sockets.
So we throw our wet towels
over the door tops again and again
until the mildew.
On vacation we say we should move
to this place, with these views –
but it’s the living we want
to vacate – the fact that we are beings
inside a tunnel of place and time.
If time is a cheese log, the soft kind,
covered in almond slivers, then my body
is the dumb holiday handled knife.
What will you do with it?
The mouth is a place on my body,
it is also a place on a river.
That river we can never enter
twice. And tunnels and light,
tell me that story, again. Today
the light is not light. It is a fountain
American excess, the opposite of digging
wells. The standard glitch, the hard sell.
Wait, are you there, love?
Are you texting while I’m talking to you?
Listen, let’s go somewhere
if only to surprise our cell phones.
A place where someone will watch
the kids while we barrel down
the side of a mountain.
Rebekah Denison Hewitt lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina with her family. She is a librarian and a reader for Orison Books. Her poems have previously appeared in Literary Mama, The Laurel Review and Midway Journal.