—after Evie Shockley & Wille Cole
i deliver to the brand new place, with sapsucker
crimson door, your broad pockmarked face.
what calls me to your put on, your every day
broke-down breakdown, your burn-blue
bottom—i can’t articulate, however i lean you
towards me, i do the carrying over the brink,
the leaping of the broom. in truth i
have by no means been towards making a house
salting a forged iron, starching a sweat-striped,
pen-stippled collar. however i’m so not sure of
what to fill it with: garlic bulbs, wobbly
eating chairs, pristine pickle jars, heirlooms,
yellow tomatoes, pictures and glass
geese to waddle alongside redwood bookshelf.
and sure, you, poised and ugly, sturdy and
speckled, black, content material and nonetheless within the sunroom.
