The Loft

Becca Wild
We needed to grow a jungle in the loft.
We needed to empty out 
all the pots and pans and fill them again 
with that kind of potting soil you buy in a plastic 
bag.
 Mix it with crushed oreos. 
Grow banana trees with thick winged arms and 
seroquels with little lenses over their eyes. 
	The Fridge handle has been vines. 
Lizards and kombuchas climb out of the kitchen 
drain with macaroni feet and scrambled egg hair. 
	
Sometimes womyn with pine roots for knees come up the stairs, sit 
on the center cushion of the couch, and know when the last new moon was. 

Their armpits smell like the back corners of wooden drawers and
they make pockets out of sleeves. 

they know someone named rhythm, and
wait for a teaspoon to come and pick them up. 

	Someone lived here before we all moved in.