Yuliya Vayner


home. Disbelief, relief
I announce I live here now
to the scuffed floors
the landlord said they would buff but didn’t.
I work my footsteps into the washed-out linoleum
until the floor planks stop pining
for the last tenant. Windex wipes
past fingerprints of strangers from the mirrors so that I
can leave my own because
I live here now—Brooklyn, Bensonhurst, long-awaited
home. I dress the greying hangers
in my sundresses, sheer fabric sitting soft and light
while July’s humidity hangs heavy
in the neighborhood—my neighborhood
I live here now. I touch my hand against the wall
like people press their hands together when they’re praying but
there are no rosary beads here, just plaster. Coarse semolina flour.

Drywall against the callouses on the pad of my palm.