the soup raven made was the same colour as the bread i made, and we decided that that colour was yellow. yellow at noon said cadence, my moving neighbour, dressed in yellow down to the wool. i’d left cadence for raven, kel’s cast iron full of my cornbread, handle up in my bag like a tennis racket. middle of the rush, middle of the sky low close and pushing. our bodies hurt from the movement. i daydreamed never turning it on. we were already here. listing the tea, walking the steps, florence always wishing for an abacus. we made stories of the screensaver, turned it on, the door in the park; we dreamed about easier mess. a spray of pixels, a shower of coins, i said the wrong name for the vinyl store orange. i’d forgotten how insistently racist this movie. how young michael cera. when trynne vi-an and i planned to see the boy and the heron, my concussion still rattling sound, i daydreamed i’d get the oral history of it, like how i watched all of avatar through my little brother. but we all went, and the movie was quiet enough to hear the eager crisping of popcorn around us, the popping rocks on my tongue a week prior, my first terry’s orange, watching love actually at kate’s house. the city that was the movie until it was the city, and how it was much quieter this way.
the soup raven made was the same colour as the bread i made, and we decided that that colour was yellow. yellow at noon said cadence, my moving neighbour, dressed in yellow down to the wool. i’d left cadence for raven, kel’s cast iron full of my cornbread, handle up in my bag like a tennis racket. middle of the rush, middle of the sky low close and pushing. our bodies hurt from the movement. i daydreamed never turning it on. we were already here. listing the tea, walking the steps, florence always wishing for an abacus. we made stories of the screensaver, turned it on, the door in the park; we dreamed about easier mess. a spray of pixels, a shower of coins, i said the wrong name for the vinyl store orange. i’d forgotten how insistently racist this movie. how young michael cera. when trynne vi-an and i planned to see the boy and the heron, my concussion still rattling sound, i daydreamed i’d get the oral history of it, like how i watched all of avatar through my little brother. but we all went, and the movie was quiet enough to hear the eager crisping of popcorn around us, the popping rocks on my tongue a week prior, my first terry’s orange, watching love actually at kate’s house. the city that was the movie until it was the city, and how it was much quieter this way.
