If you said, long ago when we were
young, when the Sun flew like an idol
and mothered us, that we’d crouch here…
that we’d bang together this composite
house—hands on mugs, our porcelain tools,
and sink nails into Ikea parts,
I might have shrieked chimpish grunt-words
at you—become suddenly, bloodily single.
But we’re here, hunched over glue-
bound slabs of sawdust, grain painted on.
The sunset fists through hung blinds—
its knuckleprint on dust fleck gravestones
set in bedframe. We mimic reproduction
on our mattress, grasp thighs and
pin each other down. A haircut
held in wax, stupid-looking
against your nakedness. And the dust
stirs, only to land on the mug-hammers,
so, we speed up our construction.
Nathan Erb is an undergraduate student in Carleton’s English program, concentrating in creative writing. His work has been published by the Carleton English department and FASS.
