Hobble Creek Review
| Rachel Mallino |
In This House: strands of hair
strewn wildly inside the bathroom sink; spread across
the ceramic floor; lodged low in the shower's throat
like knots of words. I know to stay silent, to obey,
to clean this wreck of a place. My earthy hair
is just another gesture that I am my father, and you-
a vessel. You shuck my scalp all the way down
Main Street, nothing but a face-off between myself
and asphalt. You hope for magic, these locks of wool
to vanish like a hat-trick because a bald head is nostalgic:
when all there is to understand of the world
is the shape of a mother's face.
In This House: curtains
You brought home sheer curtains to our wicker-filled
house, impenetrable chairs and couches made of willow
switches and bamboo reeds. What were you thinking?
I'm thinking of the bedroom closet, back hunched
over while you sleep at 8:00. All that remains
on the stove are your yellow rubber gloves. The bleach bottle
empty in the trash. I'm only scared of you most of the time:
I smoked Marlboro Lights once, in my bedroom, while you
were dreaming of hand cream- how it will magically erase
your obsessions: the kitchen counter; the bathroom grout;
the mouth on my face. You hide in all of these places and
ruin them. I didn't think about the house catching fire when
I lit that cigarette, there were far more interesting ways
to get rid of you- like the goose feathered pillow, for example.
Forget your theories, there is no future here.
In This House: agoraphobia
This house with doors/ doors/
doors. Sick slats invite like sore
throats. If I make a move, step
through, air wilts and grips
owed time . Itch- itch- itch.
To amble outside is a tightening
of leaves: the bundle and stack
of fragile death with its proper
turn, the legitimate tilt. I sit straight
on this couch that holds no
season. Chant hydrologic, chant
vapor, chant parachute.
strewn wildly inside the bathroom sink; spread across
the ceramic floor; lodged low in the shower's throat
like knots of words. I know to stay silent, to obey,
to clean this wreck of a place. My earthy hair
is just another gesture that I am my father, and you-
a vessel. You shuck my scalp all the way down
Main Street, nothing but a face-off between myself
and asphalt. You hope for magic, these locks of wool
to vanish like a hat-trick because a bald head is nostalgic:
when all there is to understand of the world
is the shape of a mother's face.
In This House: curtains
You brought home sheer curtains to our wicker-filled
house, impenetrable chairs and couches made of willow
switches and bamboo reeds. What were you thinking?
I'm thinking of the bedroom closet, back hunched
over while you sleep at 8:00. All that remains
on the stove are your yellow rubber gloves. The bleach bottle
empty in the trash. I'm only scared of you most of the time:
I smoked Marlboro Lights once, in my bedroom, while you
were dreaming of hand cream- how it will magically erase
your obsessions: the kitchen counter; the bathroom grout;
the mouth on my face. You hide in all of these places and
ruin them. I didn't think about the house catching fire when
I lit that cigarette, there were far more interesting ways
to get rid of you- like the goose feathered pillow, for example.
Forget your theories, there is no future here.
In This House: agoraphobia
This house with doors/ doors/
doors. Sick slats invite like sore
throats. If I make a move, step
through, air wilts and grips
owed time . Itch- itch- itch.
To amble outside is a tightening
of leaves: the bundle and stack
of fragile death with its proper
turn, the legitimate tilt. I sit straight
on this couch that holds no
season. Chant hydrologic, chant
vapor, chant parachute.
Rachel Mallino lives in North Carolina with her husband, daughter and
various lovable animals. Her most recent publications include Stirring, Boxcar
Poetry Review, Weave Magazine, and Thirteen Myna Birds. Rachel is the
founding editor for Tilt Press and the dysfunctional e-journal Slant. Her
chapbook, Inside Bone There’s Always Marrow, is soon forthcoming from
Maverick Duck Press.
various lovable animals. Her most recent publications include Stirring, Boxcar
Poetry Review, Weave Magazine, and Thirteen Myna Birds. Rachel is the
founding editor for Tilt Press and the dysfunctional e-journal Slant. Her
chapbook, Inside Bone There’s Always Marrow, is soon forthcoming from
Maverick Duck Press.
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