The Museum of Everyday Life
It’s been weeks since a drink knew my name. Thank you for thinking of me. The mountains are getting taller or the sky is sinking. Either way the monogamy of morning is nuzzling at the front door. My pockets are overflowing with the repetition of noon of taking out the trash with a heart made of stove and dish wash detergent. I deconstruct the laundry then curate a special exhibit for all to see in the living room. If the rooms knew of my love they have never shown it. I name every appliance in this house after a greek myth. Good morning Apollo goodbye Persephone. My thoughts teeter into the many lives I hope to someday meet. The lull of the bathroom mirror greets me again and again. What to believe when everything is always everything when a feeling never changes or grows old. Again again, I am an appliance lost in a field of flowers. I drown out the buzz of every breath.
Of all The Midnights in all the World
And again again comes. The moon’s horoscope says to embrace every of life’s commas. I pause myself dark and stormy. I go semicolon in the winter. A short pause and then I continue into you. I keep my dreams tidy, stored in a shoebox under the bed where the sky can’t find them. I open my mouth so wide tomorrow’s dinner finds me. I grow a new government in the weeds forgotten, never pulled. I told you we would be this: a bruise on the inside of heaven, a light switch connected to the moon. All of the night’s lights inspire the ghosts to return to their gardens. The days are closing in like a parenthesis. So I open a diner in the left ventricle of my heart. Time is a seed blowing in the wind. Let’s meet again in the eve of midnight’s bloom.
A River Will Kill Anyone if They’re Lonely Enough
This is opposites. An angel gets her wings but a body of water commits another crime. A butterfly turns into a birdcage trapped in the bottom of a ship. This is consequences. Even romance gets tired of waking up with a hangover. Loneliness builds a cabin besides a lagoon while the marine mammals worship in the church of summer. This is rescuing. I fear the beauty of a love story never to come. Is there a sequel to what is found below the dirt? If I wake up, I will be my own spoiler alert. If I wake up, I will be awake. I scatter the newspaper headlines across my windowsill. This is vigilance. I want to know what I need to know. I want to swim to the surface of the whats. What is hidden, what is private, what to do when water feels so alone.
Anhvu Buchanan is the author of The Disordered (sunnyoutside press) and Backhanded Compliments & Other Ways to Say I Love You (Works on Paper Press ) and Which Way To Go or Here (Platypus Press, 2016) co-written with Brent Piller. He currently teaches in San Francisco and can be found online at www.anhvubuchanan.com.
Brent Piller is the co-author (along with Anhvu Buchanan) of the mini-chapbook Which Way to Go or Here (Platypus Press, 2016). His poems have appeared recently in or forthcoming in (b)OINK, Gramma, Wildness, Reservoir, and Yellow Chair Review. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.