Literature
well that virgin never kept them from littering
before this ugly, flowered couch
bobbed down the river
and came to rest
where water lapped semen
from its edge,
someone slept here unalone.
the stains in the cloth spell promises,
"my body goes here,
yours belongs there,"
the cigarette burns on the armrests
sketch stories of every
so-late-it's-early night.
the couch now sleeps with the water
and the lilies
and the riverbank,
the fish now suckle waterlogged cigarettes on
flowered, moonless nights.
and this sink, before they ripped the kitchen out,
held his dishes-
food-caked, abandoned dishes
broken in anger against
her shoulders and her forehead
and her screaming, ugly face.
this sink