Burn the Whole Thing Down

The Iowa Review - - NEWS - Johannes görans­son

Los An­ge­les tastes like iron in my mouth and I blame my daugh­ters, for I’m fever­ish and they stand on the stairs and stare. They have soiled mouths and blue eyes. They are beau­ti­ful but dis­gust­ing be­cause they break the shells and carry sun­flow­ers, thou­sands of sun­flow­ers. A daugh­ter brings the in­side out­side and the out­side in­side. A wife sits on the sofa in the dark with mer­cury in her. I love my wife be­cause of the side ef­fects. I love my wife be­cause the film has been poi­soned and she sealed it with a kiss and she brings me tiny flow­ers with erect flower stalks and large seeds. She might die in the movie. She might make it un­til the enamel cracks. Might drive a car straight through the fem­i­nine body. Have you ever fallen in love while a city burned? Then don’t tell me that I’m sex­ist. I’m writ­ing a book and I love the plas­tic chairs in which I sit. I’m buy­ing them with spit.

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