A Poetry Series: Background Noise

Background Noise
by Ariel Sullivan

There, I am a beach house
and the ocean is peeling, its
pinched flesh curled to expose a
dizzy living room solar flare dance
and a series of tremors in my
cupboard palms.

All the news is secondhand,
it cracks on stacked TV sets
and through the glass they spit
kerosene and talk in satellite-speak.

Here, I am a mountain spine
redrafting the direction the aspens
quake. No more sober than an
intoxicated dream. No more a part
of you than you are a part of me.

I’m afraid I might choose the décor
based on flammability. Arrange the
chairs around the fireplace. Maybe
I like the color bone dry.

I will kiss you through cable static,
but you might always be a stranger here.