from Soaptrees



Mara Vahratian

Up all night arranging carnations and signing off on permanent records, well yours looks fine. The whale-oil lamps, took 'em, sat themselves tall in a skiff and she twirled a parasol. Crankshafted your view-line some afternoons, spent across her game, raincheck ass. If I lay my head in this house whose crow’s-feet do I see early, paint walls or just nail-driven, hemmed and hawed big wants. Even a plate of naan or to be so every five minutes. Between call it a tin-can receiver and gist, a bluebottle—kind word for the low hum in your ear or elsewhere, off for jasmine. Comes off a certain way and we spend our whole days bettering. You ask how did I know that jingle from way back it’s too easy. Bringing home a frying pan and nothing to cook. Shortfingers spent her nights scratching tally-marks, her head. Be that as it may superstitious, that’s a weed pulling, Saint Christopher is not a saint these days. Cold enough to run the oven and sidestep the night out—you can cut your good gal’s throat; the judge will send you fare.
 
 
 
 
Behind every bank-teller, a red-haired jezebel says blondie Doll. Put upon as might well be, to summarize the mountain-path mapping; she picked and spangled. For wearing the inside out so right, don't think I'm not her kind—happy to be alone as well your match-girl, by a factorial of how many times we did each other wrong. Now push me out the car door I don't mind.
 
 
 
 
A shadowbox, wraparound porch along the Niobrara—think someone calling to you by dinner bell, her shirtdress and Saturday night wet hair. The daughter-in-law gets the washbasin last. Sling you a breakfast steak and batter me up, come clean-covered come the bending-over you so kindly, so goes my eyes says what you say, goes. Bone stoppages, a handspan is one way we’re known to sleep, measured until through the curtains you’re rise made from coachwhip. Cartographer—once upon a hesher, skinny shoulders. Place me this yellow-haired version five years old in Morrisville, and who do I see in his Nova. You don’t want to imagine but I did anyhow even then counting the minutes on the upswing and each yard of eyelet; that we should be so lucky. Gingkoes and archways and the security screen door, geckos up on under it. So it goes the swivel for a kiss on the iliac crest; I'm gonna miss you when you're gone. She lit the television all night; jangling bottle rockets in patch-pockets, gauging your cryptograms and now wants for statistical inference (says how many days longer, steal out while you're napping, wins the series). Someone to the judge's daughter: good morning you know I do stop. Offhand stringing pearls, peacock feathers and the basement, basest way to close on her and she's O let's, that happenstance before permission, which is sure enough permission you're sitting there in yours. And between mine's a goldmine. Ask quiet so as not to bring it on: is there a ghost in your house. Is it endemic or what. There a handclap, here pianissimo.