we don’t speak or speak only of butter & eggsArianne Zwartjes
you carry hangers and hangers of clothes. each one empty a body. the dogs are distraught at your already absence. the missing furniture, the cold. the cursive of this narrative, the scriptedness. the house is half-empty. your truck keeps getting fuller. each time it drives away, fuller. goodbye, red truck. goodbye couch. goodbye lamp stereo table. somewhere there must be a bottom. a seawall of some sort, a boundedness. the helicoptering of each thing we’ve ever said we wanted. icicles fall off your voice. each body empty of the other. the hands and the way they are empty. i can’t breathe because of the missing couch. goodbye, couch. nothing could be more absurd than one’s shoe thrown across the room. than it light as foam and landing without a noise. we have entered the realm of the absurd. you are taking the dog. we’ll call this a breakup poem. we’ll call this the quiet disintegration of a longer ride. what we once called home. the house gets emptier and emptier. in the end you’re not here.
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