CHRONOTOPE
The Woman at the Laundromat Says I Need Two More Hands Eve Kenneally Here’s what happens: I lose track of something impossibly small, and everything I turn up has the wrong face. On the train I don’t scream but I think about screaming, and someone thanks me for my kindness. Someone builds me a small house. It’s impossible to locate. I follow it around, listen for its longings. You grow tired– but wait – wasn’t I happy? Wasn’t I asking all the right questions? The man I buy weed from says everyone in the government is terrified of people growing their own. He says it’s a new year, you should try something new and overstays his welcome. Wasn’t I trying to remember what you had granted me? How I angled its ache away from mine? He calls the machine he once witnessed leak its own smokable oils the most inventive one he’s ever seen. He marvels at its ease, what can be built for renewal. Could you imagine this ten years ago? Can you imagine it even now? Eve Kenneally is a New York-based writer and alumna of the MFA program at the University of Montana. She has a chapbook called Something Else Entirely out with Dancing Girl Press and a micro-chap titled FOUNDER with Ghost City Press. Her poems have appeared in Salt Hill, Whiskey Island, Yemassee, Bop Dead City, Stirring, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter at @eve_kenneally.
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