sapped

when new jersey dragged me home in its fingernails, i decided to grow a forest –
glossy dracaenas canopying my nightstand, tendrils and
spears communalizing in my windows. i thought they might stop
the urge to disappear, but they couldn’t even oxygenate the air.

quickly, eden was out of my control and became coniferous. some
days i prolapsed into flannel sheets, sweated a storm, listened as hordes of
houseflies marked their claims upon my domain. i hoped they
would take it over, but the room remained interminably mine, stale and tepid,
suffocating with its knowledge of me. when paces around the block
bloomed into a fever, i escaped in a custom of mine –

stayed over at yours. as i do, and as we know. woke up in the guest room,
aired-out and new, and you told me we would cook for us. here i could
slip clean skin out from silk bedding and breathe easy in front of your
closed-lip smile. in your kitchen, with the sun spinning out from metal
cutting boards and your teeth and hair, the easy gravity of

my feet a surer home than any i’d felt since the forest – i was away,
as you played the velvet underground – i was staying – i would have given
up that forest like the resolution of a minor chord, legato. green
is a heavy color, and you would have none of it. i would drive a
pickaxe into every clock for this yellow forever, search and
destroy like a mercenary minus those pesky moral hang-ups. and
there was momentarily no longing

to run; everything was the warm clear light
in the kitchen, the melon sap under my fingernails,
your thumb guiding the blade sure and soft through the rinds –

– and the houseplants some blocks down,
waxing and waning on my windowsill,
aching out for water.

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.

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