for sale by owner

by Alison Landes

Chen Liu

hospital bed, never slept in artificial plant (life-like) dog crate, serious inquiries only.

i see you selling your hamper for four dollars, your trash can. i want to tell you there are things that should stay dead, but i am slow dancing with this old floor lamp, dipping it low like baby to water.

i want to know where is your dog, whether those plastic leaves haunt you like something that will not come alive. i want to know are you lonely for my things?

tell me this: who taught you how to price your life. who ran a finger down your belongings and said dust. that gray stuff is your skin, your finest hairs, things that don’t stay or go. tell me who said nothing is worth keeping.

i remember a TSA agent with a big voice, booming the usual stuff. his thesis was i doubt you want to be touched. i laughed and then cried and itched my head for the feeling. i almost collapsed when i heard the lilt of a song i knew.

i want the ghost of you on this bed. i want your arm around me like a sleeve. used is just another word for had, i realize, waking to the brush of rough hair on my thigh, reaching for my skin to keep it in place.

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Alison Landes is a women’s health nurse and cat mom living in San Francisco. She writes on the themes of trauma, womanhood, and the moon. You can reach her at alisonslandes@gmail.com.