Lauren Endicott

Time On A Small Couch

The lobby air is lemon candy and womb sounds          I carry my friend’s 
body to the door     I ask for a single mustard seed    The man has a jarful 
but shows me an urn of his wife’s ashes               This time I come with a 
rotting tooth     I am the rotten tooth in the mouth of every room      Stop,
he says     She is called sixteen    She is aching at the root     The rot is in
her floor joists, see?     His beam finds a borer’s loopy tunnel    The pests
have long gone, he says   The damage is not structural   I didn’t know we
were talking about buildings    We aren’t—   Come, hold sixteen with me
Now he stands at the counter in a paper hat     Bloody prints streak across 
his white apron       He points with a blade       These two parts we can eat                  
The love heart and the animal’s death       The rest is for the birds       But
officer, there is a man sleeping in my bed     Yes, he is for you      And the
children, too?    Yes, and they belong to no one    Love carefully   Next is
the cave of spring   He meets me with a headlamp and water    I thought I 
was alone down here    Yes, you thought   Thought is as logical as dreamt
Any dream can slip between the mind cage bars    So be a child at the zoo
Admire these creatures       Do not bring them home       Some species are 
unfit to breed   Some leave behind only skeletons   I hear bones and know
I like this frame best   I point to a sample on the wall   He cuts four pieces 
to length, miters the corners      I breathe deeply      Here is the warm resin  
scent of my father’s woodshop   We press the original under archival glass 
and step backwards      See how it is a mirror    See it hanging in the lobby
beside a faded Gorky poster      You can cry     The window holds a citrine 
sun   (Reader, it is not so simple as all this   In real life, he sits kindly with
tea and crossed ankles   He says odd things like,    Take a walk through an 
old growth forest      Find the fallen trees      See for yourself whether they
are truly dead              And I return to the door carrying my friend’s moss)


Lauren Endicott is a long-time writer and a fervent lover of poetry and the arts. They are currently pursuing a masters degree in social work in the Boston area where they live with their spouse, two children, and adoring cat.