By Ludmila Polyakova
She keeps her delicates
inside the freezer
on rib bones that could snap so easily
the faucet cries slow drips all day
the pilot light growls and purrs
and bedsheets fold into each other
a warm pillow next to its quiet, cold brother
whispers questions to the ceiling
about height,
who sighs,
just floorboards.
Clutching at Straws 