How to say something crude in a quiet voice
by Justine Henry
Time bakes a web into every corner;
is this what living has always felt like?
A panopticon of greedy eyes,
peripheral reflections penned
in by four walls, christened by
blue light as the snow falls
unpolished & unrefined.
Quiet; it’s the radiator
hurling expletives again
from across the room, groaning
at our pleasure in captivity
and how we retrograde
each year with such consistency.
Quick; count the cracks
in the ceiling plaster. Take note—
we’ll be shattered by dry air, too.
Twisted in an endless knot or
caught in a bloom
of a shallow breath.
When the windows close
we become minnows caught
in relative suffocation. Defined
by the contorted proximity
of our bodies to circulating heat.
Portioned morsels, sanctioned
crumbs, bits of nostalgia, if only
we could fall apart
and eat ourselves off the floor.
Justine likes jasmine oil, vacant looks, and xerox machines. She writes, molds sounds, manipulates images and wanders around Maine. Currently, she transmits music into the ether via radio and studies herbal medicine.