The kitchen is a grid

Talk me down
From shooting ropes
from one roof to another
Just to see how lines
cast and battle
into smoke screen dust
lifted from yesterday’s order
of powdered milk

My apprentice
likes to dance with a fan in her hand
To command air
She tells me often
that she buries packets
she receives from abroad
into the dirt
And later, can’t remember
their hiding place

She doesn’t know yet
That space contracts
at the thought of secrets
And absorbs influences
across molds
made by ancient sediment
to extrapolate to death
into the molten center

She ties the rope around her waist
and launches onto the edge
of the building
She slaps her thighs hard

You talk in your sleep
she says
And I know
Because in the mornings
there is always a face I’ve never seen before
conjured into being
Sometimes there is a coffee table
with a missing leg
A car with blown up air bags
blowing hot smoke against our couch
And sometimes I wake up running
The kitchen is a grid
I walk straight
She walks on the ceiling
We still drink the coffee together

We keep mirrors at all times
For to face each other
When walking in opposite directions

When we are angry
we throw books at one another
They disappear into blips
before they reach our bodies
I am protected by the intentions
of rooms I’ve provoked into being
Through stubborn invocation
I’ve promised them life
To be like me
They think I will make them immortal


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