Night Apartments

by Leah Claire Kaminski


spines, whole tunnel columns
knit out to carapace:
we muscle the chlorine up into
orange-hot cloud cover,
play other music, talk in our tongues,
back or forth our water-lighted bodies
through the silver-fish pool,
convexed, our flitter-feet holding down
the held-up day of hot and hot, and hot
the day ended, tossing light low,
grabbing; my hot knee swelled
to meet hipshot plant drawn wood and all the metal knots,
came back to towels shrinking on patios.
knee had its quick knuckled chase of cartilage and
water silked it, water silts us with cool chuckles
while we’re still quiet and draws back.


You can find LEAH CLAIRE KAMINSKI‘s work in Tupelo Quarterly, Catch Up, and Midway Journal, as well as upcoming in Witness Magazine and Negative Capability. She teaches writing at UC Irvine, and is shopping her first book around: it will be called In case it’s catching it quick that’s important. Follow her sporadic missives on twitter @leahkaminski.