Body like a House, Hands like Home

In my dream last night, you finally kissed me, finally opened
your door of a mouth wide enough that my past could fit through it.
My barred window lips, unsure of themselves & unsure of you,
tried to craft stories from the contact high of being so
near your chest, tried to turn your touch into non-negotiable
poems about heartache & loss & gain & futures & eventual trust
in me, I guess, but mostly in us.

Brought my right hand down to place on your thigh
but your body had distorted itself until it was my childhood
home – teal outside paint except one beige spot on the chimney,
basset hound barking from the wooden back deck.
I leaned in closer to the second story gable window to
see myself sitting on my white canopy bed
104.3 WZYP radio blasting through my 1990s boom box,
staring at my sticker-covered blue corded phone
waiting/always waiting
for a boy to call who never actually would
until you breathed into our image & everything disappeared.

Wordlessly, your hands questioned my intentions, asked my hips
if they liked what I saw. Could I ever love a man filled with
unmade memories already so comfortable that
I could slide into them like freshly-washed bedsheets
after years of sleeping cold on the ground every night?

I could.




Rachel Tanner is an Alabamian writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bad Pony Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, Atticus Review, Tenderness, Yea, and elsewhere. She tweets @rickit.

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