Nola Accili




bent as paraffin my espresso

pot melted into oak countertops his

fishnet stockings Christmas lights still scattered purple

despite bonsai branches stretching green feathery guts toward

light starry nibs (we saw them): February bulbs constellation laughter

nerve-bent at crimson midriff of curtains on sale

tousled over whitewashed sill softly stirring 

scarred nutmeg mouth foaming vacant eye two-for-one

sheets of bent glass plum wine about to tip

about to spill on the antique hardwood floor stained 

black like this pretty house we live in

like these linen piles they built up in minutes

bent Barbie-doll roof leaking with bits of damp sky

bone white vibrations splintered words

down bright fresh stucco pink Arlesque walls

a blue stone pot your mother gave us

almond yellow leaves hands striking

almost half past nine in the evening

the smell of sugary fingers