Suchi J. Pritchard
Pickle
Language is like Leather
it was a party
it was called something for everyone
it was pink almost red, and chemical
it was lost, between
the upholstery
plush values, plastic covered, empty
it was over
a birthing most uncomfortable
accompanying birdsong played
backwards, garbled, and beautiful
an un-archived collection
in wide lens view
it wasn’t seen in memory
it was peripheral
two cassettes in a box,
prove what was—
or drawing, on the surface of water?
takes the shape of
air, takes
the shape of breath
our costumes sleeping
seemingly limbless marsupials
take the shape of
pillows
take the shape of feathers
without wing
birds without branches
wishes take
the shape of many things
our mattress takes the shape of
us
we sleep to surrender
what is naught–
we dream to remember
the shapes
inside us
air
takes
the shape of
humidity— it’s indent
and sag
scent
of fresh yeast
rise
the bowl
the butter
softens while
while waiting for the overnight buns
Papa fills a glass with water
a lens, he then holds in front of my right eye
his left hand on my left shoulder
he then turns me clockwise— lamps, books
a window of nasturtiums, yellow curtain
furniture, both spindly and heavy curved—
friendly beasts, the world in slow kaleidoscope turns