A Void for My Collection – Crow Jonah Norlander

To not have a floor and then have a floor: It’s amazing I can step forward. Louia warns
me not to listen. We fall in love shouting about the scriptures.

Such a great number of layers needed to root. When open, it all fits well, but we have to
go down to the beam.

We turn away from the couch downstairs for an arbitrary change at the common ground.

We are the only workers, so we dress each other the way we want.

Louia makes a pendulum of tin wrapped around an exposed bulb and ties a rope through
a chain low enough to tickle our elbows. She places a sea candle with concrete under the melted
wax, an umbrella trunk of a dead red cord with a bite mark, a brand bearing the incorrect family
name, a standard brushed T-shirt, stamped by the permit office.

We hope to fill it before the baby, guests, friends and family leave the city. Before all the
city inspectors show up. Scrutinizing stains leaking through tongue and grooves.

Ordinary fluids? From which canned animals? They’ll want to know.
Louia takes them under.
As we’ll all be in the end.
To be found someday or not.
For now, we enjoy bread.
You are welcome to join.