Apartment 271

by | April 24, 2021

After Meret Oppenheim


Steaming in gazelle,

espresso in a fur-lined teacup

clipped just less than an inch

scowling on the dresser.            She gullets


fuzzed brown innards

with a Levonelle

& a little salt                         (a day later)


three phone calls missed at five fifteen

with another due at seven

we’d been waylaid.                              The first shout:


time is money, the early bird–” catches


her skirt on the subway,

tearing office snags out in gashes,

rat-race scars.                     This is what prayer feels like:


holding your breath all the way to the bank.


Last month’s move-in lies around

pulling tooth and nail for a long

low sweetness & each week

frank autobiographical exposures meet              another’s deadline.


Scissor spilt heels

incisive in stiff velvet

so red as to make

morning shriek                with the mutts outside yelling:


thank you oh good lord for not making me a man.


Beastly things don’t belong at teatime. ∎


Words by Eleanor Cousins Brown. Art by Sasha LaCômbe.