Waiting our turn at the exhibit
I turn away from silk––powder blue
turquoise, carnation; colors to swaddle
a newborn in, colors to comfort a foreigner––
and speak to our new landlord
on the phone, in half a language.
When it is our turn, we enter in silence.
The installation is an apartment: perfectly constructed
in thin fabric. Every detail preserved. An homage
to a home, by an artist for whom careful observation
is synonymous with love.
Delicate and phantom, it was the artist’s second home,
a different kind of perfection.
Still, a reproduction never does
reproduce. Gauze sags. The outlets droop.
But look at the exhales suspended,
the laughter creased and billowing,
a home without a house. And yet, I prefer
our apartment, lovelier than this colorful dream.
The realness of hard morning light
your untamed hair, a halo.
Francesca McDonnell Capossela is a poet and writer from Brooklyn. She is currently completing her first novel about daughters, bodies, bonds, and boundaries. Follow her on Twitter: @CheskaFranny.