The Poetry Project

pulled corners

Soleil Garneau

I forgot to mention where I go in my sleep 

I walk 
I ask lanterns and cold beer 

and a ringing rotary phone where 
I whisper my secrets 

I have dug a small hole — a home to hold
my body 

I built a warm bed there 

I palm the walls 

I forgot to mention inside my chest is a runged ladder
I climb and fall down often 

I forgot he loves me, he loves me not 

I forgot pendulum of time 

I forgot to tell you how I’ve made a mess
of myself 

how I find my voice 
only in your voice 

how I want to drink 

so I lick the pulled 
corners of your mouth 

I pull 
I puddle 

with your spit 

I melt 

I become butter 

in a pile on the floor 

I forgot to tell you how the sky looked 
that night

when blue became all of the colors —

became open 

And when I say open 
I mean drowning 

I mean a deeper blue 

I mean I stood on my tiptoes, reaching 

I forgot that to save the house I must first
save the body 

and I try to do so in different ways
I mean I’m letting some parts rot away 

The lungs ruined quickest 
like how we live 

The clavicle feels — has felt 
tight, pulled 

for so long 

I mean you 
looking at me 

I mean tandem biking with my bestie

or diving in to some water 

I mean a curl 

I mean I lost the house again 

I mean the house was lost long before
I was born 

but I ask and I am told migration
I ask and I am told maybe in time 

I ask and I am told maybe one day 

and I carry a collection of stories
with me everywhere 

So I shape a house in my mind 

So I stay up 

the last bottle of wine 
with Camille 

talking about god knows what 
til god knows what time 

And she built me a nest 
on the cold cement floors 

of her old apartment 

and the most reliable thing in the world is
how every air mattress sags 

under the weight 

of a body 

I forgot to tell you lungs lungs lungs 

I forgot to tell you actually I’ve decided
I’m not dying, thank you 

I forgot the French Quarter and whispering and
night and night and shipping off 

and the lights on the river and the gentle
sound of ice clinking in a glass 

I forgot down by the river 
I say hi 

to death 

and she rises up 

out of the water 

sopping wet 

in her robes

Work from Architecture of the Interior: how to save the house with Angel Dominguez