Spellbound
Tonight, this house washes itself.
Blouses clip onto laundry lines
and broth scrapes off the porcelain
of our supper, beef stew braised with
a little too much heart—I mean, butter.
In small talk, we sip red wine that is too bodied
and sputter nothings on our day to day.
How clouds waft like whales and horses
across the night. That we still need to clean
the cuckoo's nest—we left it to rot through winter
—from our gutters. As our centerpiece, orange peels,
to rub on the insides of our wrists when we get hungover
along with golden root and turmeric. Sometimes just there
for the scent of mama’s remedies.
Blouses clip onto laundry lines
and broth scrapes off the porcelain
of our supper, beef stew braised with
a little too much heart—I mean, butter.
In small talk, we sip red wine that is too bodied
and sputter nothings on our day to day.
How clouds waft like whales and horses
across the night. That we still need to clean
the cuckoo's nest—we left it to rot through winter
—from our gutters. As our centerpiece, orange peels,
to rub on the insides of our wrists when we get hungover
along with golden root and turmeric. Sometimes just there
for the scent of mama’s remedies.
Sept / Oct 2023
Carina Solis is a sixteen-year-old writer living in Georgia. Her work is published or forthcoming in Rust + Moth, Gone Lawn, Heavy Feather Review, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter.
Art: Cam Pietralunga. Antediluvian Guard. Acrylic on canvas.