In a house with no doors we lie
on the floor while the ceiling
whirs vigorously above us.
You pull me up, furniture vanishes,
and we gyrate through a bare room
to no music until we’re stiff
with longing and the landscapes of
our hearts collide.
When we twirl past the window
snowflakes fall in bizarre patterns:
a fruit tree; a sailboat; vigorous,
indecipherable words detonating
in the inflamed night.
When we tire of dancing we lie
back on the floor, our bodies inching closer
until we become indistinguishable,
our skin fusing, our hearts
thundering against the floor.
Outside, the stars spark and erupt
and snow falls backward
into the sky.
Catherine Friesen (they/them) is a queer and non-binary writer, editor, sometimes illustrator, and all-around nature lover living on the side of a mountain. They majored in psychology and creative writing in their undergrad and are currently working through art therapy grad school. When they’re not reading or writing, they can be found baking cakes, singing to their plants, or getting lost in the woods.