The Walls of Your Apartment
Mountain lion hide smudged with charcoal.
The cold drip coffee stains
and paperbacks stacked like ego.
I'm finding my lips falling
into the nondescript fragrance of your home.
They twist like a town square
—and you with them--
reverberating into shadow.
I unhinge my jaw to expend a suite of questions
because truth be told I am confused
but desperate to listen. I ask you what you mean
when you say your words—the ones that belong to you,
tucked neatly behind your basement birdfeeders.
Because you've arranged them in a row. Yes, I can see
you've strung them up along the moulding. Decor
commemorating the quiet in the back of your throat.
lounging in your apartment
we make do with the radiator
and I lay my palms flat and open
and your words dance
and we smile.
This poem was written for the ekphrastic surprise challenge on birds.
Gabe Kahan is a poet, freelance writer, visual artist, and the founding editor of Taxicab Magazine. His poetry has appeared in the Occulum, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Paragon Journal, and others. He lives and writes in New York, and never leaves the house without his Burt's Bees beeswax lip balm. You can follow him on Twitter @GabeKahan.
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