Interiors – Kristine Brown

blessed destination


at times I feel that I’ve dropped a
marble while zinnia petals nap on
the ground. their laughter soaked
into the heart of a November snow
cone that stood upright while I
studied a language my father said
I’d never use. a peanut butter jar
still sits on my nightstand. it is
empty, save for a few dozen
pennies that will schedule the flight
that saves me, the flight that
reminds me that my soccer ball
was never deflated. every little
thing and any big thing are bought in
a perfect world with just a jar full of
pennies. no one ever argues, and
newspapers that scold my drying
thumbs are no longer made into
tired fans. once the pennies begin
to spill, I will buy parasols for the
two of us. I’ll buy you a cup of
berries and cream, and oh so
patiently teach you how to make an
ostrich laugh en route to a place we
never thought we’d find. or keep.


Pour Me an Empty Pitcher


“like I said,” with a clearing of the throat more gravelly

than the avenue to shops shut down, chipped.


another way of saying that I don’t listen, and if I could only learn to

stop cutting into the curbsides of the kicked and crabby and blue,

I’d be going somewhere because then I’d be nice and people are more

interested in lending two Advil(s) to a pleasant girl even though she asks

nearly every day, after the phone calls and emptied tubs of key lime yogurt

which is more like pudding that even widely mouthed spoons struggle to touch.


decency in a person is not unlike whether dogs are charming just because

they breathe, and just like dogs that wiggle their tails and labor a whole morning

to showcase their top heavy enthusiasm for salted meat, that kind considerate girl

might only pray in pastels to avoid the chafing cold that defiant solitude often levies.


I am trying to pinpoint your thesis statement but something says you find

me either dumb or jaded enough to lick at conclusions’ juices, no reading required

so I’ll never know exactly how many artificial flavors enrich this weekend drink

you hand over as I lean over damp brochures with a dozen faces on the front

too pretty for cream and volcanic debris when water from the tap becomes holy.