Her father couldn’t remember the word
for glass, the word for piano.
Author: museajournal
rain jimmying
the brick that loves me back.
I tried to imagine what they dreamed about all winter, and if they prayed for rain.
I am not its claw feet, the scars
infesting its flat. Nor am I layer
upon layer, a lasagna of thick paint
and stain.
A smack of jellyfish, a charm of hummingbirds
They have come to build a new house in my brain.
i opossum.
i grouper.
i open up my mouth
& GULLET.
You, across the room with rain
for teeth.
We lick our wounds and lay siege.
I found my way back over the dunes
while the first night, blue, rip tidal
shoveled back to the unknown
A week later we all flew out to see family in Hungary, and my grandmother said I looked like a little Auschwitz boy.
His words were little, pretty stings.
I loved him though. I loved his hands.
Everything is possible in the space of the studio.
Like getting a shrug out of a diamond.
Art by: Tommy Nease