Three hours in the leather rind
stitched to the couch are herring jars
incapacitated by your mason ones
and clobbered through the fridge,
as vertical as blue shingles torn
behind the bowl of bud pickles.
They churn parsnip juice to heavy nails
which scald down the watchpoint step: your plastic
pillar, tossed with wire and wine cord.
That noon-night you carve the car keys out
of your sweat risen cushions and
lob the grateful bronze into a
tupperware that steeps on the
rug. Your arch forehead hits the alarm
across the street and the button sends us
skewed into the window of another thing
of leather pitch. It’s dew-specked still and the
recliners are studded with key chains.
Ella Nowicki is a student and writer from Wisconsin. Her poems are forthcoming in Rust + Moth and currently appear in Assonance Literary Magazine.