47.2 - Spring 2018

Page 205

O, Elvis. O, malt shop. O, maybe I am dreaming the Architect’s bad advice to get up on the stage beneath red and blue carnival bulbs, a silver pole mounted on a square of unpainted plywood. Her advice, to keep sliced lemon in my purse, to suck the sour wedge at nightfall. Does the sun ever feel crowded in the universe? Does a room ever feel claustrophobic in a house? Sophisticated people buy picture rails, rare hunt. Endangered everything runs through our hair. I’m not saying this to scare you but when I was on that stage I did not see the faces, just the lights burning the ceiling. I don’t mean to scare you but I asked the Architect and she told me the foundation crack is called spalling. I ticked its ends in pencil so we may watch the break grow. You and I are amateurs. We don’t know the first thing about what can curse a house.



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