Museum of a Marriage

1.
for eavesdroppers and dreamers too milksop to engage in a ‘real life,’ I call to you to: imagine a room the
size of a shoebox; sit in a chair, clear glass in your view, on the outside looking in. observe the sudden light.
the tiny people, one woman and one man, shuffling about. she: throwing her hands up, spotting muddy shoe
tracks on freshly steamed carpet. he: leisurely flipping through the newspaper, stopping every three minutes
or so to scratch various parts of himself—the backs of the knees, the ashen elbow of an oblivious diabetic, a
spot behind the ear…

2.
for observant but strictly quiet children, I call to you to: watch as the scene changes to her lifting a roast out
of the oven, smiling at her handiwork. she makes this three times a year: a birthday, a Christmas, and a
funeral. which event is it? see him shove a stool out of the way and grab the largest knife he can find within
reach. watch him cut, with skill, a piece of roast and shove it into his mouth, walk over to the fridge, drink
milk from the carton. Done For The Evening.

3.
for mothers who’ve concluded that the ‘project’ should proceed, I call to you to: notice as she dusts herself
off, drinks aged bourbon from a teacup, the shoulders bobbing like a reflection in a disturbed puddle.

4.
in remembrance of a road most traveled, most dreamed about, most planned, most idle: in 92’ she asked
‘How do I know if you’re my sort of person?’ And he reached into his bear trap mouth, removing a row of
perfect porcelain stones and said ‘Open your hand.’ And she collected it, later trading each for a few pieces
of warm bread and drips of hot wax.

5.
for the incurable romantics, I call to you to explain this: they face off. with erect bodies, firmly placed on
each end of a log—the see-saw of people making sense of what it means to like a song you hum
incoherently until the end of time; a song that might as well be white noise.

6.
answer this: what happens once the shoebox goes dark? do the tiny people appear before you? he on the
left... she on the right... does a bright pink string of flesh escape from their chests and form hands in the
middle? do we ever figure out if they bought the house? or if they rode the horses? and, perhaps, if they ever
held each other close and danced to no music? when the flesh begins to fall, hitting the ground with a plop!
and shaking like a jell-o mold, do skeletons running in opposite directions appear? does the string become
taut? do the hands strain? I’m sure you must’ve thought of this, eavesdroppers, dreamers, children, mothers,
incurable romantics...but, perhaps you know nothing.

Afieya “Fi” Kipp (they/them/he/him) is a trans artist and poet from Northern New Jersey. They received their MA in Poetry from Southern New Hampshire University and a BFA with distinction in Painting from Kean University. Fi’s work can be found or is forthcoming in Badlands Literary Journal, Okay Donkey Mag, The Bombay Gin, Milk Press, and elsewhere.