the upstairs neighbours forget
about the hose latched on to
their kitchen sink, and i watch
as my ceiling starts to expand
down towards me, as if taking
a long, deep breath. water pools
in the thin spaces between our
two apartments, and my mind
jumps to sensible responses: call the
repairman. photograph the
sagging paint. get out the ugly
towels. but it wasn’t until they
took the serrated blade to the
soaked walls, pulled apart my
roof, and left a dark, torn hole above
my cookbooks and tea cozies
that i thought of you. of how
much easier it is to pretend you’re
not dead when there are no
open wounds in my home.

1 Comment

  1. I’m sitting in the food court reading this and the tears filled but didn’t quite spill out of my eyes, but my đź’“ is thoroughly soaked.
    Another Kelsey poem that I love.


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