Poem by Czarain Laqui
Art by Aiza Bragg
Feet flat against a dusty floor:
a layer of dead skin cells
and dog fur — this is Home —
but she is empty.
Suffocation
in all her trinkets whispering maudlin memories;
Humid breath,
Viscid lips.
Kiss her goodbye before brushing your teeth
and welcoming morning.
Let her lie still
and groan when you leave bed.
Leave her again.
Still she lingers against your gums,
sliding a coy tongue along canines,
Cloying,
dripping syrupy wishes down into your
lungs — it sloshes
When you walk downstairs
It sloshes
When you move to make breakfast
It sloshes
When all you can stomach is a cup of coffee,
Made too sweet and leaving a bitter film on your teeth.
She is empty.
Her womb: a breeding place for insects that crawl
In and out
of old pastries,
leaving sticky trails of slick behind.
It’s proof of the way you’ve neglected her;
Your kindest lover,
Your sweetest companion,
Your Home.
But this is all you know
and all you will be.