03 | 02.2017
Home (Initial Findings)
by Franny Choi
- the apartment came with a table attached to the wall.
- the center point of my mother’s body.
- i sit in bed, clean laundry lotused around me.
- brother sister & me in the same room for hours, being, being.
- his sleep patterns, his weight, the smell of thin cotton against his back.
- a photograph of a yellow t-shirt sends me flying back 12 years to the suitcase dad heaved into the trunk, the milk jug crawling across the pavement.
- when logic jumped off the roof, my friends made a nest of the living room.
- sunlight on brick rooftops saying, this is where you live now.
- a burnt hole, a pressed eyelid’s starburst, red to green.
- i filled the room with smoke, seeped out bottom corner of the window.
- three mattresses side by side on the floor, a pink quilt, a soft heap of body.
- i never learned my grandmother’s name.
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