A box under a desk with a breathing in it.
Inside the box, a blanket. A breathing
and a blanket. A mouth mewing, an adorable.
Then a sleeping thing breathing between us.
The sky above the mountain
was a solace. What did I see there?
Then the whole sky was a garment,
The whole mountain empty as air.
A garment dangles on a hook, empty
as a mouth, waiting. The body takes
on the garment, breathing it in. One breath
after another, the house empty, the sky empty.
What is a house?
Suzanne Bottelli’s poems have appeared in The Collagist, Scoundrel Time, The Literary Review, and Prairie Schooner, among others. She also has poems forthcoming in Isthmus. She lives in Seattle and teaches at The Northwest School.