• Seneca Basoalto

The Cracking Teapot

my perennial fumes unfurled from the sheets and sniffed a bowl of lemon

sugar that reminded me of your kitchen | a freckled floor, respirations that

remain half–asleep beneath the cracking tea pot. let me in, or I will wear

away on the grass, right here, a spinning rotor made of sandglass and illegal

ivory | nothing seemed familiar because I’d only ever seen love through the

blankness in your stare, expecting it to smother me between macerated fruit

and rye, like a Babylon of star clusters crossing against immeasurable pastures.

tell me, is any of this true? perhaps I forgot that time does not exist

but for those who retire in their hearts old image.

Recent Posts

See All


I don't call my mother by anything other than her given name you assemble your jealousy in the kitchen your first husband built, another name you never took | another name you didn't earn but kept ins


I think regret, & there—! you are washed ashore & curdling in my sight as if you have been missing the taste of my cradle as much as I have been missing the taste of your thumbs gunpowder & flowers, y

Every Scholar has his Folly

I. You fantasize about a patch of daisies and a grape vine. Dirty knees, as well as cattle fields, remind you of lace latent innocence playing with bubbles in bathwater, as you watch from chair, legs