28 Nov christie in january, By Aynsley Rae
an apple is the doorstop.
in lieu of a working lock
it is an invitation,
a trail of pawprints
from stoop to kitchen to hallway
and back again
does it count as smoking inside?
if we pour our lungs to the front porch
and the smoke trails slither
between the chipped green paint,
green skin
to stain the walls second-hand
does it count as fucking?
if we twist the knob till it burns
and lick off each other’s flesh
under the eye of the windowsill,
a misstep in the architecture
we try to cover the dead spots, the mildew
with dead leaves, spit-soaked steam
a contradiction in bare chests,
loose fibers in the metal catch
does the cat count as ours?
if the annex is a lonely place to be
and we grew sick of slamming shoulders
into bruises for strays
in the small kitchen there’s gin
and key bumps, before bambi’s,
under the rounded archway
where I took your photo
and forgot to curl the corners in red,
your roommate coated the wall white
and we washed our sheets
we can’t live in our own stains, but
the blood feels like home
anyway.