Driving to Swedish Hell to Buy Furniture

always fills me with dread,
so we turn up Bowie to pump ourselves up
while we circle the parking lot,
trying to find a place for us
in the waiting room of the underworld.

Inside the maze, we make our way
through the nine circles of a neverending house
where nobody will ever live. We travel
past kids having temper tantrums
by the stalagmites, couples fighting
over shower curtains, and the cafeteria
where you can choose between ordering meatballs
made of your butchered childhood hopes,
or potatoes. Some who journey here will not survive.

But we manage. We know
what we require. As we haul a floor lamp
and the boxes that will one day become our souls
to the cash register of the damned
the hands of those who did not make it out
grab at us, trying to look menacing
the way only a disembodied hand can.

We threaten litigation, and they crawl off
looking dejected, ready for their smoke breaks
where they hold the lit cigarette until the ash falls away
and their fingers burn.

At home we spread out the assembly instructions on the floor.
We organize the parts of us we thought we were lost forever
into piles of bolts, screws, and rust covered nails.
We know there will be places where nothing fits together.
We turn up our music, begin to build.

About Sophia Holtz

Sophia Holtz is a writer, performer, and sometimes-illustrator. She has performed her poetry in bars, colleges, and the occasional basement throughout the United States. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in RHINO, decomP, Consequence, and Muzzle, among others. She tweets @sophillazilla and her website is sophiaholtz.com

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