Pull-Out Couch

11/7/25

Cemented in our thousand

pound plaid couch,

I’ll become the audience,

and you, a performer,

making balloon animals of avowal,

keep your eyes focused on

nothing, and me,

I’m waiting for curtains

to separate, because it all

imitates art, or is it life, or is it

just a brick wall,

bricks as worry and longing

and plaster as oath,

You pour fountains on

my feet, and can’t see through my

chest, the twist ties and clots

and shame, crinkled nylon,

suds and leather and anything slick,

My family is outside in

the cold, and you can’t let go of the

red dog in your hands,

and we can’t sleep here, or

anywhere, ever again,

because we have to sleep alone,

It’s art, and life, and death, and

they won’t ever know how

many balloons we popped inside

of these cushions,

but our breath is hot enough to

see, or it’s cold enough, or

it’s enough, but it’s never going

to hold us in place as

this tub beneath me,

and I have my hands cupping

against temples like weights,

My bedroom is three states away,

and it no longer exists because I’m

not sure it ever did,

I want to hear

the next act, it’s the last one before

intermission, so bring me

something to bathe this drought

inside leather clavicles,

Cemented inside this room

forever is the last time we meant

I love you, because we crammed

our grief into floorboards,

The mold will take over

eventually, but I still can’t move

my feet, and you’re packing

all the air around us, taping

boxes shut while the

theater clears, not a dry eye,

not another moving truck, not

this, I’m

not here,

I can’t leave everything I’ve ever

felt inside this bucket,

It’s not going to fit, it’s not going

to survive,

The wind is dipping below zero

and my family hasn’t even caught

a glimpse inside,

They deserved to see,

Chosen without knowledge of eternity

was this seat, and my calves are

almost gone, too,

but there’s an encore,

and all we can see is a reflection

of shapes that spell out something

we’ve never heard,

But you let your own on stage, mine

in the dark, still,

empty air taped shut and strutted

into beginnings that

dress like endings,

My hand is turning blue from the

inside out and this cement is ready

to retire, tonight

and forever, so move my body

into the far room and set me up

against the wall,

Let my eyes burn and worry not

why they must,

We’ve come to see the ending, afterall,

and see why

this room will be nothing more than

rust.

[Tomorrow’s life begins

without me, hot breath and red

shapes, houses in every state, love and

un-love, buried and taped,

I can lift this

thing at the end of my bed,

because it’s the only thing that’s

there, so

my life before here can

breathe anywhere,

and it doesn’t have to rhyme but

maybe it does, maybe its grip on my

arm is only the gloves,

Maybe these shoes are the thing

that retires tonight,

and maybe these vows are the ones

which turn on the lights.]

— ODH