DS Maolalai


Putting Togther a Sofa

flipping the bottom
topwise; open
to an ugliness
of guts. like looking at a dying
cow's ribcage: all foam
organs, all wood
and wicker bones.

I take legs from boxes
and find their thread's
direction. screw
them to place. allow a little
give. then the arms
which slide to slots
and pull backward. they fit,
and no – this is not

any longer death; this is
life, this is the cow
calving. the pushing
of some clean
unsteady beast
to functional use. I flip it backwards;
it lands, rocking a moment,
and steadies. pull it about,

moving it
to its place:
the empty corner
of an empty room. it stands there;
sniffs about, tests itself
and settles.
it sits obedient, aware
of what’s to come.