By Kristy Lueshen
Imagine yourself in a house made of weathered
wilting lilacs, tulips, lilies
built at first with stone that turned
pungent and soft
The flowers feed you broth and lemon water
their crowed petals dainty in the dusklight
you sense their decay, an effervescent but floral
as you yourself wither amid the bare knees of
existence. Glass melts, too, over time. The windows
sag and droop like copper kettles left on the flame
for an eternity of
Imagine yourself drinking tea from the last of your
condensed steam dribbling down the sides
drifts across the table.
Kristy Lueshen is a queer writer and librarian living in Chicago. She has a Master's in Library Science from the University of Illinois and a Master's in History from DePaul University. Her creative work focuses on memory, nostalgia, and surrealism, while her academic work focuses on radical feminism and social movements. She can be found baking bread and taking naps with her cats in northwest Chicago.