briana gonzalez


There’s rot in the foundations;

water-spawn mold in dark splotches

dreaming of expansion, it freckles

the walls in clustered, grey bunches,

bundles of infection; it’s in our glasses but

that won’t stop your drinking;

it crawls up the cabinets, the table legs,

the deflated heart of our couch;

we breathe it in and accept it,

maybe even love it, we water its roots

and hope for a harvest;

there’s rot buried deep and now blossoming;

it kisses us goodnight with the damp

affection we crave,

we use our hands to scrape it off the walls

and devour its fuzzy, wet slop at the dining table;

there’s rot in our foundations, 

swelling in our lungs,

and your only reply is,

“I hope insurance covers this.”

13 March, 2021

Briana Gonzalez is a Chicana, queer poet, and a student at Texas State University. She has pieces published in Coffin Bell Journal, Ample Remains, and is expecting publication in Southchild Lit later this spring. Outside of crafting poetry, she enjoys watching the night sky, logging movies on Letterboxd, and spending time with loved ones.