Kallie Falandays

Can we write anymore
poems without the moon?

Fuck the moon yourself, I say,
look at it up there, as if it's looking
at you, it's not. So stop doing anything

if you have to think "what would the moon
think." As if the moon, your mother, hated
anything that didn't touch wine,

and please, drink wine, do nothing
else with wine. I want to see you
bleed from your feet if you are going to talk

about wine and the moon
and all of the hanging

before morning.


The House The House Not The House

The most confusing part about the house
she said is all of the noises:
the air conditioner vibrates with the cabinets,
the refrigerator bulges in the night, all of the windows
seem to spit back the daylight. Even the ceiling,
the fan, the bottom drawer built into the hallway.
Even the hallway, its lights flickering to spit back its sun,
the morning has to bend around it. Even the desk,
the tops of the counters, everything is shaking
not to be seen.


Nothing Ever Happens

except if there were only one room left, how many years
could you love me? I was taking a bath and then something happened.
I imagine you when you weren't a boy or a building or a finger.
When I remember your name and give it back. If I were an ocean
and you were a bed frame, how long would it take us to destroy each other?
I mean if I were also a curtain and dishrag, if I were a muddled orange
and you were a glass bridge. I mean how long would you stay
if I were a bleeding and you were a dirty towel hanging, if I were a towel
and you were the ocean. Nothing ever happens except now it is
changing: if I were a dishrag and you were an orange. If I were
your finger and you were the bed frame. How long would it take
to look like paper? I mean, to turn back into paper? How hard
would it be to notice the splintering and turn away?

All poems by Kallie Falandays