Suchi J. Pritchard


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


take the shape of feathers
without wing

birds without branches

wishes take

the shape of many things

our mattress takes the shape of


we sleep to surrender

what is naught–

we dream to remember

the shapes
inside us


the shape of

humidity— it’s indent

and sag


of fresh yeast


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