With love

Poetry

Apartment 543

Nausea. Boat-Swell Seasick. Stuckness. Stuckness. 

Do I sleep or do I pull my hair back and bend over the toilet?

Clogged like so:

The hair in your shower drain. 

The orange peels, the bent scratched forks, 

the hardened coconut oil in your kitchen sink.

Should I call a plumber? Our landlord won’t answer his damn phone.

What if his pants are too loose? What if he tracks dirt on the tile?

I just mopped.

The eeriness never really goes away when you close the door at night.

That need to leave even though you can’t quite

put your finger on what is wrong. Like arms, enveloping you. 

You turn around and you are alone.

Just blow into the hard drive. Just scratch out the lint. 

Fuck—you forgot to put the windows down again.

How did we get here again?

The shower turns left for hot and right for cold. Or maybe,

its the other way around. I can’t remember.

The shower pressure is always too low.

Is this lemon too brown? Can you mask the deep dark bitter, the sour,

with enough sugar? Not quite clorox clean, not quite ready for compost.

Do we just cut that part out?

My knife isn’t sharp enough.

Elizabeth Hsieh