Such a rainy day at IKEA. The rain coats our car in white noise. The escalators purr along ceaselessly under our feet and the carts wait patiently for our hands on their grips. No one else around. Trails of sparks sizzle out behind us, tiny fires from daily friction, matches left burning under the cap of the car to snuff them out. 200 square feet. 987 dollars. What a sweet rug. The rain beats down like a gentle chime. The grey sky rolls on forever over the blue hills outside, an ocean ofAppalachia. Inside it’s just us walking arrow to arrow at a quiet shuffle. Soft musings on bunk beds and didn’t we want them so badly as children. A tease about the bottle cap glasses. That glance, almost feline. The empty store hums beneath our pressed palms. Organic electric when our fingertips touch, an earthy calm. Four-eyes. Yes, we should get that rug. It’s so sweet.
poetry
un.heard
finally a freedom
from living under others, carrying houses like a snail.
away from hiding, hearing, hurting:
it’s great to be alone.
un.lonely, not unloved.
not unloveable, not I.
but on a road and on a trail.
happy trails, i’m hearing me.
i throw the un from the window as i roll on,
and lo!
there are those parts others cannot hear,
whispering the secrets i’ve always known,
to my upturned, eager ear.
once again
in the land of kudzu and old cars
the rain is a comfort
and the green is a taste.
the hills roll like days
for days
ahead, always to come.
the sun will emerge, through the leaves
and the birds sing all day
and the thunder, all night.
littlestorms 