Malden, MA

RENEE EMERSON

1.

Ambulance siren, the crying city baby—

these jazz undertones of the pavement and

multi-story building 

sing me

This isn’t where you’re coming from

this isn’t where you’re going.

2. 

Flowered drapes, projector stand, pubic 

hair on the bathroom tile, a tension 

rod, curtain rod, broken 

panes in the windows

(what the previous tenant left behind)

3.

Constructing furniture

from a box: my arms, hands

are not strong enough to wedge 

the angles flush.

4.

The tiles and angles do not always meet—

they gap, as a missing tooth, missing eye, the dark

nothingness that craves filling.  

I worry an item of value will slip into 

the unreachable darkness: wedding ring, letter, 

photographs of dead relatives. Items I take 

precautions to keep.

5.

Phone conversation:

What will you do if there is a burglary?

Call the police, climb out a window. 

What will you do if the gas leaks?

Call the fire department, open a window. 

What will you do if there is a fire?

Burn.

6. 

Formal Complaint:

to Manager, to Landlord, to Whom it May Concern:

The right window in the bedroom has Saran Wrap taped 

over the missing pieces of the pane. The wind sucks it in 

and out, like an artificial lung, like the sound of a woman 

rummaging in the grocery sack for the new pack of gum 

or for a receipt to spit gum inside. 

Could this be fixed before my in-laws visit?

Sincerely,

7.

The ash scent drifts through the grates.

Cigarette smoke from another tenant. The smell of 

burnt and burning.

8.

The small town parade drums 

and trumpets, high-schoolers tramp the main street.

From our home, we hear it, mistakable 

for mowing, for rolling a dumpster 

down the driveway. The drums,

clarinets, the neighbors grouped 

on corners. They fawn, and wave.

We do not go down to see it.  

We do not need to look out to hear the song.

• • •

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