The Steinach Operation

A place of semi-natural vigor.


Elisa Gabbert gets busy on 4/12 for NaPoWriMo


Welcome to the abandoned hotel. The somewhat haunted hotel.
The hotel of your dreams. Your triskaidekaphobia dreams.
The dream in which you lost your virginity, in the suite
where the ghosts of past lovers fight over the sheets.
The window looks out over pear trees. You gaze out
the window with your lover. You don’t trust your lover,
that’s part of your dream. Everything is part of your dream:
the too-small buttonholes, the broken TV. The taste
of the pears, which verge on too sweet. You are scribbling
on hotel stationery at the start of your dream: I write this
from Room 13. My lover is here, in the abandoned hotel.
He grows stranger each day. I don’t understand his language,
his name. We only know each other’s fear. Our hunger,
too. We vow that we’ll get to the pears before the crows
if it’s the last thing we do. Writing these sentences may be
the last thing I do. My lover wants to throw them in the fire.
He is pacing by the window. We think we hear crows.
We are terrified by our desire.


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