I know that
the Rodin at
the Harvard
Art Museum is
in front of
the Monet for
a reason. I choose
where to put
my plants based
on where the
shadows fall. I
eat rice twice
a day. I have nothing
else to say about
the sky greying.
It was too white
outside to see
the snow at 4 pm
but now it’s black.
I forget the American
spelling of gray
and don’t want
to be mistaken
for someone who
adds u’s to neighborhood
and color. I think
this is funny because
I hate Anglophiles.
My blankets are
a ball on my bed
and I’m the pink
lump next to
them. Together we
are your favorite
piece by Louise
Bourgeois. I start
talking about yellow
when I decide I’m
done with apathy. I
drink orange juice
and listen to
Orange Juice. I
decide that
I’ll never continue
a conversation
with someone
who self-identifies
as an asshole and that
peonies are a watery
pink and to think
about Elizabeth Bishop
peeing on the floor and
how New England smells
like salt and
freezing wind. I
listen to the news
while a candle
burns down to the
glass and dance
around my
apartment in
my girlfriend’s
underwear. If I stand
in the sun I’ll be
sunshine, maybe even
red and burning and
enormous. I come
to an informed
decision about
who I’m voting
for and knock
on every door
in America. I
never leave
my room because
the internet can show
me Iceland and
Nairobi and
the houses on
the street where I
grew up. I lose my
footing on the
stairs and do
a timestep. I choose
the body wash
for sensitive skin. I push
my school building
into the Boston
Harbor and buy
a plane seat at
a ticket counter.
I put the flat
green soda bottle in
the gutter in
this poem and
the next one.⅋
Julia Lattimer holds an MFA from UMass Boston, where they were the Editor-in-chief of Breakwater Review. Their work can be found in Hobart, Scoundrel Time, and other places you can see on julialattimer.com. They live in Texas.