i had to notice the undertones when i drew you –
your skin is blue underneath. but i always
saw you as orange, like the landscape we both
know is scotch-taped to the door room of your
memories, an advert for a lover you
half-sculpted yourself. if you sliced open the
desert it would cough up a city. if you scalped the
city it would whimper a bed. your house is too
big and empty to be muffling all of those echoes.
do you sit there and stretch into the plywood
corners like a shadow? do you turn the light orange
in the cold pristine kitchen? i think you must dig tunnels
in the living room with film shots and shot glasses.
but your skin is blue underneath.
are you holding your breath?
Montana Azzolini is an American poet and student. Originally from Hoboken, New Jersey, she can now be found either at Whitman College or somewhere uncontactable in the Central Rockies attempting to commune with the mountains. She is up to no good.