Elizabeth Landry

 

The Hotel In Which You Hold Him


Baby you have whipstitched me to the quick. With a clarity that knocks the wind out of me. What was it that you said, which set me off, which straddled the beam above our mouths? I felt particularly buoyed that night. I felt particularly rosy-lipped. When were you going to? When were you going to carry me? And where to love, without pills or vows?

Who began quoting who first? Half the night was gone before. I guess it was an excess of misdirection. But where to, love, and how...Did we behave as if we were dumbfounded? Did we believe the pretending of one another? We did, we did.

And then what would you do differently? How would you begin to decipher, to plumb, as it were, the sunny multitudes of my innards? I'll give them to you and give them to you. I'll render you all over the night.

Something began to stream through my hair. But it wasn't gone yet. (He had wanted to come all over it.) I sat with the soap staring at the shower. Something was mentioned in regards to the arrangements towards me getting home. Some regard was given to the time I'd spent there.

Sweet as any other dovecote, and half the battle to swing ourselves around in it. Come here, love, and stretch your ankles. But longer. I let myself down again and again. But the walls were so beautiful. And the timing so tender. We grew up over the night and collapsed into the squeak of blue that lifts up into you like a splinter.

And so it remained. She would beg him to leave, to spare her, please, his sorry sack of compunction. But he would stay and enjoy her mouth. He would find her slapdash charm quite to his liking.

 

"K" Cried

It cried all night.
It cried, and in the morning her sheets were wet.
no blood running, so why worry?
heaven's stark bright, she thought, was inside the sun.
coming forth like a great white "K" on back of blue.
no harm done, so what for?
why weep a jar of petals anyway.
they'll all come loose from your hair, miss you so bad
not even struck by anything anymore, like
"this does not strike me at all"
a black-haired beauty touring the grass.
turquoise reappears in fashion.
had a mother of a time pulling the suitcases out of the trunk.
we need so many clothes for all our things, all our love
reappearing in endearing outfits.
and your many fickle smiles,
and your dozens of thoughts on an hour.
clowning to the end of the drive,
basking in the revolutions of love.
pressed a big bowl to the bottom,
her selfless uterus placating a thimbleful of regret.