Domesticity like The Cubs

The same thump as thumbs
Meets you
And greets you
Push down

The pink cross on the music man’s back
Who taught us to
Teach time and waiting

Reach for stupid places and incubation
Cause any bed is big enough
And no price is high enough
Sleep a little longer

It is all the tiniest tidal wave
And every time arms disappear the legs do too
Something else grows
Like the shallow of eyes in use

Could we have a year of hibernation
In a carved out pink den
I’ll soak it up and you can keep rolling it out
With a title to my name and more life to yours

Of joint and afternoon mildness
Everything made of squared
Even the soup has no shape
And the stench that always climbs

Higher and higher
To the best neck
Layered and layered
Of filo pastry

Moistened and moistened of buttered marmalade
And crumb of crispness
And shy of cluttered folds
Fought for but never worn

Anything could be success
But the easiest is to stop planning
Call off the straws
And just bob over

And hope the thread finds me
It can’t stop falling and growing and getting tangled
Close enough for one eye
Stand mirror to mirror

And the bones tucked away in a sleeve
You’ve known all these
But can never hold them down
Once you throw away their clues they will grant it all

Three points touching
I’ve promised myself that nothing grew for you
But everything is
So much so that they could be reaching the pinnacle any minute now

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About the Author

Violet Treadwell Hull is a multimedia artist studying studio art at UCLA. They most predominantly work with themes of bodily autonomy and the power structures that lie within physical interaction. Their writing is a synonymous practice with their visual art-making as they inform and propel one another.

Violet Treadwell Hull
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