Two Hundred and Thirty-One.


Izzy circle


here is our house, here is our attic
the power’s still on but the TV’s gone static
playing iridescent over pallid plain faces
widescreen LED light that still carries the traces
of ezy channel shopping and talk show host grins
of prime time preachers who’ll sell you back your sins
our home sweet home walls are bursting with stuff
but our beady eyes know we don’t have enough.


Sarah circle


as the plane presses into the obscene inky black
I imagine we are submarined in the deep dark sea
compressed like a packet of chips, hearing the whalesong
stretch in the heavy velvet sea, oldest and saddest song of the world
I imagine a leak springing just above the head of the stewardess
as she pours another cup of airplane coffee
the wet streaking her bun down like a tear
in the fabric of her face



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