033.1: Dot Devota:: DEFENESTRATIONS: The Division of Labor (I) 033

This afternoon, when writing this intro, I was sitting in a coffee shop like usual. In came a man carrying a large sink, a basin. He set it on the ground as he ordered a latte. It was the most beautiful sink I have ever seen. I have a sink in my house, several, as do you, I’m sure. But this was a large porcelain basin, washed in subtle pinks and yellows. All the more interesting was its context or lack thereof. Did this man just purchase this sink from one of the surrounding shops? Is he a tourist or a local? Will he walk this sink back to his home, there to install it? Back to his hotel to carefully package and ship back to wherever his home is? You can’t carry a sink on to a plane, can you? What was missing made this event and imbued it with its beauty. As I left, I said, that is the most beautiful sink I have ever seen and he looked at me funny. Each day this week, we will feature a portion of Dot Devota’s “Defenestrations: The Division of Labor,” a series of prose poems. Her sentences, often fragments, move from one stunning image to the next but are always incomplete.

For me, these are love poems – but as the title suggests, the type of love we want to throw out the window, perhaps a love we throw out over and over again, the type of love that causes division. A love where something is always missing. And this incompleteness forces pause and conjecture. A love where continuation, repetition, and stoppage come at the most surprising places. A love that is toil, that is labor. For this relationship, the missing contextual cues have not been erased by time, but rather trauma and miscommunication between speaker and lover. Devota’s work turns over and over the question of knowing another and explores the gaps in-between, gaps that are frustrating, violent, but that create a most curious beauty, something we cannot give up. Please check back daily. Nik De Dominic
W h e n   O u r  D i s t a n c e  F a l l s  S h o r t e r  T h a n  T h e  H e m. In my jaundiced dress, we will invite the parasites. To believe in our hope, too. What breaks a fever. Finds repetition. Twins a diviner’s stick and pulls the longer flaw forward to a hidden source. Incubates two lives. Lives repetition, without rhythm, half-heartedly, superstitious. Trees on the back of a super-organism. Honey mushroom single spore. Bodies fruiting—shiro—killing the forest about it. Several times over.

Hero of a thousand slaughters sunken sleeps from what is reclaimed. In weakness. Delivery beds, mast and flag too small to see. But extensive, the salted sea opens. My letter to you unfolding gathers courage. To sink. From its most middle point, dragging in the edges.

( C o n t . ) Aging into the curtain’s branches, a caterpillar falls into a bucket. Of stolen milk. Is not finalizing, but a remark, the morning wants. You in an attic of charcoal drawings, my wanting. Mourns you at the staircase to its attic, where humidity is a high- plains well we stagnate towards. Wanted me dead, some mosquito.

( C o n t . ) Active transport up the gradient, thin copper and conical. Insisting we waste into shapes. Shaving brevity like potassium skins from the farthest. Fruit, exposing what the hung hangs to—beneath skin more skin, beneath more the no-longer—There. On an eye-length cord no one will pull. To betray us, they don’t have to. They return to their civilization minutes before. The tablet drops. Wishing to perform all the day’s intricacies in preparation to be seen, even for a moment, by the head desk. From which all documents swarm. Undulate. The air holds. Buoyancy we evolved-refused. Cleave your ears to its snapping shrimp.

( C o n t . ) There is what is called. The deep scattering layer in the depth sounder, not creating the noise but themselves. Schools of fish reflecting sound wear taffeta, move rapidly like glances. Decide by motioning, remorse is saved! For tomorrow’s later date. Morsels from deeply divided cake brick. Our scattering them into orders will suffice. As walls. Though ‘wall’ is just a feeling, only ever upwards. And out of our reaching over.