Caroline A. Evey
Inspiration piece

Wood and Clay
By Matt Lurie
Response

In a school for the doomed, a woman faces a window. Someone slips a note beneath a desk. Someone saws a block of wood into a door for birds. Someone picks apart uneven balls from a Styrofoam cup and and someone eats an undeserved lunch.

In the adjacent lab, a tree grows, inch by inch. The premises are predominantly fish- and/or grease-colored. A uniform human array seems to clean it daily. A loose bag of money daily disappears from a safe. A bottle doesn’t open. A mouth says things hands can’t.

A raccoon lives in a bed beneath the lab where someone doesn’t sleep. Someone doesn’t sleep in the cafeteria, nor in the castle room, which the kids call it. The kids don’t look at certain food, which is predominantly fish-colored.

Certain words disappear from a sentence a woman speaks during an assembly: love, lost, later, lunch. The kids don’t carry things in their bags, which are predominantly love-themed, the kids call it. Bodies don’t live beneath a door for birds.

A uniform doesn’t open. A uniform is predominantly body-colored. A uniform doesn’t love. A loose raccoon picks apart the adjacent castle room. The kids don’t grow.

Lunch says things a woman can’t. Cups disappear daily from a desk. Someone d0esn’t open a mouth, doesn’t sleep in an uneven uniform. A human doesn’t call it wood-colored. Certain kids don’t carry grease.

Certain kids don’t disappear during an assembly. A certain someone lives.

Later, an adjacent door doesn’t open. A mouth says clean it. A mouth says don’t look. A mouth says things, which the kids call lost, undeserved.

A door says don’t live beneath certain words, which the kids call love. Hands predominantly carry bodies—a mouse, a fish, a human, a uniform—inch by inch. Certain food disappears from a cafeteria. Hands don’t carry bags. Food doesn’t sleep.

A note opens. A note says things. A note seems to grow.

A body carries a bag. Certain bags carry bodies. Certain bags carry money. Money seems to slip beneath a bed. Money seems to sleep beneath a bed.

Later, a certain someone doesn’t sleep in a bed. A certain raccoon doesn’t eat fish. A loose love lives safe in a castle. Styrofoam disappears from a lab, which is predominantly lab-colored.

Kids call bodies birds. Birds call kids undeserved. A bag calls a woman grease-colored. A sentence disappears.

Inch by inch, an array of bodies seems to carry a bag of bottles daily. A daily love lives beneath balls, beneath rooms. A certain doomed racoon says sleep later, look later, live later. An adjacent tree doesn’t speak, doesn’t face a window.

A certain face seems to slip into a body. A body doesn’t carry a face, which is predominantly food-colored. Certain words don’t carry premises. Certain premises disappear.

A tree doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t look, doesn’t disappear. A face doesn’t disappear.

Words can’t grow. A sentence is doomed. Wood sleeps an undeserved sleep.

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