I’ve packed the galleries to capacity with sour gnats
and piles of wet towels. You might have to squeeze
to fit. You will need help breathing. Over the intercom,
a recording of your mother asks You often lose control
of yourself when crying, don’t you? She calls you by the first
half of your brother’s name. Second-rate chefs occupy
every restroom, and my suggestion is to leave them
alone or else risk deflating their soufflés, and they’d
never forgive you for that. On the ground floor—a film full
of acquaintances getting what they want: blood oranges,
chunks of sky, terrifying sexual appeal. I know this
is a lot, and I’m here to address any concerns, but first,
the main exhibit—an audience participation piece
in which I teach basic science lessons. All you
need is a match, your hand, and the understanding
that smoke can only exist when what is burning
is burning imperfectly.
Paige Lewis is the author of the chapbook Reasons to Wake You (Tupelo Press, 2018). Their poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, The Georgia Review, Best New Poets 2017, and elsewhere.