by Chel Campbell

 

The familiarity of my parents’ love became unfamiliar,
materializing without warning as I watched them

transform naked cement into a space for me.
They were sculptors who made illusions of walls,

gathered frames, wires, and cotton candy insulation
to press under layers of sheetrock, tape and mud.

I shouldn’t have touched anything, but I did.
Every part was magic—half-moon knives smoothed

spackle, packed screwhead edges with eager scrapes.
In the middle of their work, they would flirt in ways

they didn’t think their child could understand, sneak
intimate touches when they thought I was distracted.

Bare outlets peeked like curious faces, light switches
were stripped of their plates. When it was finally time

to paint, they flew, made messes of constellations,
prettied the walls and each other. I orbited their spark.

Laying in the new dark room, I covered my ears
to block lovemaking’s steady rock above, my

fingertips rough with fiberglass
giving everything I touched

a sharp strangeness.

 

 

 

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Chel Campbell (she/they) is a poet from Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Her debut collection, Everything We Name is Precious, is forthcoming from Milk and Cake Press in September 2024. You can find their most recent work in Rogue Agent, SWWIM, New Delta Review, trampset, and elsewhere. Follow her on Instagram @hellochel and say hi!