Gale Thompson
Come to the Kitchen, Kelsey

I will make you something clean.

I will swallow now

the city.


You are not lost you are


in the hallway. Here it is enough.


Vapor is crooning fivefold. Even the jars

are rising, the room unspooled

and glazed.




I can hold your mouth open

she said


I am still alive

she said

hand me the wooden spoon




What is a Holy Year? 

What is our whitefish terror?

What is Texas?

I have sewn maps

onto the bathroom tile.

I have changed my bed-sheets.




I like mannerisms.

I like all of this.




If you leave this house

we will carry the dishes with us.

We will roll them to the park with us

and kiss the bulldogs

sailing happily

on the curb.


I am still geological,

six thousand letters of the alphabet

in the shape of human hands.


Everything is debris now, is next door now,

is flashing white

on the wall.