The Home of Seamstress

I am lungs of house a glass spanned wall hung chandelier of larynx and trachea each breath bringing on minutia of volcano particles soil slanted light call it dust at noon.

I am mouth of house tilted bookshelves blocking trees decorated with bird song poet’s ink screaming to open bound tombs assuring me of want as dry as my mouth is.

I am bowels of house singing pretty with apparitions who have haunted these hallways all along water heater creak louder than boot-kick can fix begs of stomach and flesh pipes.

Linked between eyelids and teeth made of tendons, broad planks of wood a tub to wash words in clawed.

I am hollow of house needlewoman, double crossed on floor with spilled eyes fabric scraps each sweet stitch pushing blood into seams of curtains drawn across crowds of mannequins and fruit eaters so that I can finally sleep, here knowing that I wished this into existence.

Only tea cloth pressed to inner thigh to receive blood chimney and embroidery my kettle rattles against closed door of home.

Kelly Gray (she/her) resides on Coast Miwok land amongst the tallest and quietest trees in the world where she writes on the inherent queerness of nature, flips predator and prey constructs, and embraces the cringe. Kelly's writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Pretty Owl Poetry, River Teeth, Lunch Ticket, Bracken Magazine, CULTURAL WEEKLY and many other swoon worthy publications. She's been nominated for both a Pushcart Prize by Atticus Review and Best of the Net by the Account Magazine, and her debut book of poetry, Instructions for an Animal Body, is forthcoming from Moon Tide Press in the summer of 2021. She is a poetry reader at Bracken Magazine but you can read more of her work at writekgray.com and follow her at @_west_of_west.