Emily Adams-Aucoin

Unmaking the Room

we did not notice that
we made up a room for it; the third cousin
of good love, 

an edge where there was no edge,

an unspoken two-columned monster.
we are amateur architects;

building this bridge with the softest
parts of our bodies,

anything that used to hum.

so then, what is left to meet in the middle?
only the weapon of us, the

accusations. I admit; I did not do the
dishes.

intention piles & rots.

but here are my hands;

I have pulled them from where
they sat in my mouth,

weaving excuses large enough
to cover me.

look: I have scrubbed all of the dishes
& dismantled the loom.

I’m unmaking the room.
I’m unmaking the room.