Take-Out Hibernation Nation
by Sierra Kruse
In March, I lived in a studio with white walls and big windows and coke cola bottles on the grey
marble countertops and the sunset made the room orange and the shower was hot and the tub was
glassy white. In April I lived in the office of my parents one bedroom but had a window sill that
overlooked a green flush tree with leaves that waved and the acidic smell of weed and these two sang
me to sleep and a dog at my door and a towel under the door crack and a bathroom I left
messy with pink hair dye. In May I lived in the bottom of my grandparent’s San Diego home with a
green and pink garden and the bed was plush and chesnut and the sky was always pink and
blue and I would wash the sand from between my toes in the shower tiled with dark black squares
spanning the floor and walls. In June I lived in emma's studio and her orange cat bit my toes with tiny
teeth when I went to sleep and I kissed a boy when she left the room and I still feel bad about it and the
air conditioner was really working well. Then there was the apartment with the mold and the
hookah that tasted like sour green apple and the porch with warm rain that soaked our cigarettes.
In July they broke in through my window when my roommate was in Wisconsin and I slept with
pepper spray and made salads with lemon on the porch and was always scared. And then in August a
home with a green velvet couch, the smell of incense on the third floor, the back of the house either
smells like coffee or a lady’s shower, the air is always warm, the sound of a groaning heater. In
December for just a bit. snow on work boots and fires in the morning and dog hair matted on
every rug.
Sierra Kruse (she/her) is a poet and performer from Portland, OR. Currently, she studies at Columbia College Chicago. In her poetry, Sierra writes about sadness, girls, and summertime. Her work has appeared in Pest Control, The Mid- Atlantic Print Council, and Stone of Madness. Find her @sierras.hands on Instagram.