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touka-koukaPoems
I am decorating. Renovating. I slide my lone box over a few centimeters to the right, all the snakes pile out, all the crocodiles cry in the new light, all the bugs call me mother or something of the like. There is a draw string that I never pull. There is an empty corner and another and another and oh, well too many to count And a memory of my father gesturing in silhouette something I can’t make out, but he looks like a womb, and he looks like my husband and I have to clean this room. I use my little fingers to trace the paths of echoes long silenced just to taste   a familiar kind of quiet because it makes more sense than this gnawing,         idle            knowing come upon me as I age, I must clean this room But I return with dust. There must have been, I think Something brilliant here, once. My lone little box, housing my lone little feather Underneath my lone little light with its drawstring untouched, because it flickers as it likes All the crawling things beneath This paltry foil to my utter desolation The snakes, the bugs, all plaintiff I don’t do things I don’t put things places, I don’t make the room full I just wander away. But I am decorating. Renovating. I slide my lone box over a few centimeters to the right, all the snakes pile out, all the crocodiles cry   in the new light, all the bugs call me fat.
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Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 7:29 PM UTC
Interior
I am decorating. Renovating. I slide my lone box over a few centimeters to the right, all the snakes pile out, all the crocodiles cry in the new light, all the bugs call me mother or something of the like. There is a draw string that I never pull. There is an empty corner and another and another and oh, well too many to count And a memory of my father gesturing in silhouette something I can’t make out, but he looks like a womb, and he looks like my husband and I have to clean this room. I use my little fingers to trace the paths of echoes long silenced just to taste   a familiar kind of quiet because it makes more sense than this gnawing,         idle            knowing come upon me as I age, I must clean this room But I return with dust. There must have been, I think Something brilliant here, once. My lone little box, housing my lone little feather Underneath my lone little light with its drawstring untouched, because it flickers as it likes All the crawling things beneath This paltry foil to my utter desolation The snakes, the bugs, all plaintiff I don’t do things I don’t put things places, I don’t make the room full I just wander away. But I am decorating. Renovating. I slide my lone box over a few centimeters to the right, all the snakes pile out, all the crocodiles cry   in the new light, all the bugs call me fat.
touka-kouka
Written by
touka-kouka
24/F
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 7:29 PM UTC
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