Gretchen Primack

G r e t c h e n   P r i m a c k

Gina Kim, Elevator Repair

Dear Brett,

next

I still like their smell. I still think about us riding up

and down. F.A.O. Schwartz past appropriate age.

Neiman Marcus, upholstered men in the corners.

The smooth cars in Brooklyn Art, bigger than my bedroom.

Remember that bedroom?

The ones I take care of are residential. Post-war, dull-walled.

I want to move to inspection. The ones I see now are always sick.

I’m the vet who lays them on the table and only sees backsides trotting out. 

I want to hear the oil work.

When did you fall out of love with me?

Gina

Celeste Miron, 3C

I’ve grown fat and can’t remember living

without all of these cells to keep me company.

Dull’s a pleasant syrup in the pump, basting buttery organs.

Sometimes I knead the folds, but mostly I leave them

alone. On the bus, in the air, in a barn and library

and on a train, the sun is free and constricted in its turns, and I’m a freight, cargo large and stuck, sleeping and stuck

in turns. I was a little girl, unfurled until the slurs and curses

in the world furled me back up in a wrap, wrap, wrapping.