the stairwell room

by Carmella Furio
Collage by Kate Snyder

2:15 a.m.

we found a spoon, once.
not ours, yet it was lodged under my mattress.
we held it to the light aghast,
and laughed until the end of time.

the AC is crisp, the air saharan.
old dorito crumbs lay like neon signs in empty ash bowls.
our garbage bin overflows with tissues, from sickness
and from our failure to buy paper towels.

the futon, oversized, lay half under my lofted bed and half under ten blankets
because neither of us ever figured out
just how to work the heat.

we’ve been flitting in and out of this snow-barren land, the two of us, hermit crabs so
unappeased by our shells that we left them behind for the tides to take.

i left my sisters with mine, buried by the sand i upheaved just to claw my way out.
but i think i found another, huddled on the futon as we watch my laptop.
it’s our living room, now. familiarity hangs on its arms.

we have five umbrellas between the both of us.
twenty shoes. three perfumes. two fake succulents.

i still water mine. just for the aesthetic.

sometimes, i search for what i know must be missing,
and i imagine it lays within plastic leaves and peeling glue
as i release the tap to pour over it.

and, sometimes, it feels as if even the spoon has found a new home,
watching over the futon from where we’ve planted it
in my old, chipping mug atop the microwave.

this room will never replace home, but it’ll come close in its own way,
for the clouds that lay stuffed in these cushions are nothing but a comfort
that i wish i could water, too.