Inside Your Head Is a Map of Your House, and Inside That Map Is Where You Actually Live
S. Whitney Holmes
Where I live, love rolls off the tongue like a licorice candy spat in a
penny pond. Children dance around the town fountain to the staccato
notes of trombones. At the center of the fountain, lips pursed, you
pose Poseidon-like atop a hippocampus. In your rucksack, a hundred
drowned horses' heads lolling. What do you think? You hone your trident
over their flat rock teeth. What do you do? You think.
Where I live, you'd believe. All's a cluttered grayscale. I leave my
rooms each morning to collect. In the air, burning tires. In the
watering cans, gasoline. In you, prayer like a foot in my mouth.
Wheeling round disks of bread in my wheelbarrow, I think about going on
strike. I do not go on strike. I think about moving to Florida.
Where I live we get naked. I rub the bread all over your body. It's
like pumice tearing down the bricks of your thighs, which are flushed
and dotted with crumbs. Bits of broken skin. It's like thinking, and
then all at once it's like doing. Abrasive. Naked.
S. Whitney Holmes has work in or coming from Pank, Gulf Coast, Ninth Letter and others.
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
of Hani Amir.
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