Sink by Carl Christian Abrahamsen

I have been getting used to

the cobwebs in my lungs;

 

I’ve learned how to look

like my Christmas cards. but still,

 

there are days the windows

remain broken, the empires

 

come crashing in and there are dishes to

be washed: bright red Ikea cups and cracked

 

mugs painted with children’s cartoons,

the green plastic plates that give slightly

against my hands, the lightly rusted cutlery

 

stolen from my parents, and over it all

the soap, until every distinction,

every sharp ontology

is submerged in hot water. the smell

of lemon soap and wet hair. the

water spilling over, as if to flood,

as if with the hope that every

persistent thing might be covered

like the surface of a young star.

 

 

 

CARL CHRISTIAN ABRAHAMSEN is a European-in-exile with a mild fear of cars. Though he spends most his time chief-editing the Goose, a short story journal, he has be known to moonlight as a bewildered philosophy student and an overly earnest poet.