Chelsea Risley
The Celanese Village—Rome, Georgia
The toilet in our first house was scotch-taped
to the wall, a half-assed repair by our 84 year old
landlord who lived next door. He and his wife
watched for UFOs from their back porch and
only bought American bacon at the Piggly Wiggly.
They had three rules: no pets, no kids, and no whiskey,
so we drank gin instead. In the backyard was a willow tree,
a bathtub full of cucumbers, and a melon patch.
The neighbor at the end of the street sometimes rode
his horse to chase after his rooster or his goat.
We would wake up in the morning, make our coffee,
and eat our grapefruit halves on the back porch in the fog.
Sometimes we came home in the afternoon to make
love on our mattress on the floor, too poor for a bed.
We’d go to sleep at night with the streetlight winking
like it told a dirty joke nobody got, and the old man next door
watched TV naked in his arm chair every night,
and I would lie there and think how impossible it all was,
how the mist and the melons and the scotch tape and even
the dip in the hallway that I tripped over every day were all mine.
to the wall, a half-assed repair by our 84 year old
landlord who lived next door. He and his wife
watched for UFOs from their back porch and
only bought American bacon at the Piggly Wiggly.
They had three rules: no pets, no kids, and no whiskey,
so we drank gin instead. In the backyard was a willow tree,
a bathtub full of cucumbers, and a melon patch.
The neighbor at the end of the street sometimes rode
his horse to chase after his rooster or his goat.
We would wake up in the morning, make our coffee,
and eat our grapefruit halves on the back porch in the fog.
Sometimes we came home in the afternoon to make
love on our mattress on the floor, too poor for a bed.
We’d go to sleep at night with the streetlight winking
like it told a dirty joke nobody got, and the old man next door
watched TV naked in his arm chair every night,
and I would lie there and think how impossible it all was,
how the mist and the melons and the scotch tape and even
the dip in the hallway that I tripped over every day were all mine.
Biography
Chelsea Risley (she/her) is a writer and floral designer in Chattanooga, Tennessee. She is the Editor-in-Chief of the Southern Review of Books and has an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. Her work has appeared in Juked, Barrelhouse Magazine, and Lunch Ticket. Find her on Twitter: @chelsea_risley and Instagram: @chelsearisley
|