by Kristine Aman

an orphaned guitar
sits upright 		on a bright
			yellow velvet armchair.
							i play with my hair,
						feel the loose strings	         resound
	quietly in my scalp.
		a pair of gray rubber shoes
					are left to dry by
						a leg of this chair.
								the cement floor
		                       						  soles my feet
							with a layer of dust.
i am standing on
			an abstract painting:
there are patches of 				grease, 									driedmud, 					meltingsnow,
				and lines of duct tape
				     		   that resist
				 peeling
after the four-square games played when
					the unfinished house was
							more like a sunlit ceiling-less cave.

i have lived here long enough
	to picture calendarsflipping,
				  clothesunfolding,
								drawerssqueaking open

     and shut, 			candlesdwindling,
			bottlesemptied, drinksspilled, 			duststirring,
organization unable to stand up
			against 		  time. the dust
settles again as i step
			            out the door, silence falling
		upon disorder
								like a distant avalanche.

			we have constructed a small miracle,
							  Hans insists,
				who has seen entropy ablaze
								take down
								our cabin.
i believe him
	      by the cracks in the new				  wall, for there
				         is no reason for this place
except for a fire and 				giving rise to
                   something real
that was asking to				

			  become.

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Kristine Aman graduated from Denison University with a degree in Creative Writing. She currently lives with her grandparents in Tucson, Arizona, where she enjoys painting, sewing, knitting socks, hiking, and writing. She is an aspiring fashion designer.