Curated by James Brock, Professor of 20th Century British and American Literature


Florida Gulf Coast University students enrolled in Dr. Brock’s Poetic Techniques class spent two sessions inside the art gallery engaging with the installation of Accumulating Interiors. The goal was to write eksphrastic poems in response to what they observed, experience, and imagined.


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by Kelly Canaday

The buzzcut rug her brother

wore before the big war one

has found its way into the gallery’s reception.

The tipped settee her father made

is faceless, unrestored, cardinally fixed

West to the museum gift store.

Its rivets and restraints secure

her regret,

her beehive head acts as a straightjacket

she examines her supper club

blue shift dress

in a lazercut mirror

The auctions, the kitchenettes, the vignettes,

the Marionette people seated

for the auction in blue velvet


by Jensen M. Wedeles

Dusty pink

to match the new babe’s room

covered in velvet and silver

from floor to sink.

Pale magenta

the color of bags under your eyes

from these nights you get no sleep

because the whole house echoed with cries.

Ghostly cerise

like the edges of light

peeping through the window

from an overdue sunrise.

Soft salmon

Why won’t the damn thing eat?

You spend hours and hours trying,

it is so nice to get off your feet.

But even in that chair, it won’t stop crying.

Faded fuschia

is the sound of a baby’s heartbeat

going flat on a hospital monitor

heard from the street.

Lavender rose

like a stuffed, irritated nose

and scarlet eyes

when your babe dies

Shades of pink

covered in dust

because a ghostly child faded to gray

still forever in God, we trust.


by Marissa Douglass

The woman screams

like the screams of the chair

legs against the mahogany

dining room floor

during breakfast, where

the loudest sounds are

the husband cracking

his soft boiled eggs

—eggshells shattering

in his teeth.

The woman arches

her back, hepplewhite and shielded

by his hands,

her legs falling over his shoulders

their bodies like two

splintered wooden chairs

attached only at the

peeled open edge of the slip seat

The man allows her to climb

onto his back,

grip the boney stiles

with her fingers woven

in between them

and settle there,

He allows her to dig

Her nails into his shoulders,

As laughing, he swings

her about. The woman stays

there on his back,

nails and sharp hips sticking into him.

When her husband has found

her, all sharply stabbed

and puckered by the man,

He crashes about the room,

breaking the legs of all

the lovely Annes, the pretty

rose-seated cabriole legged dining

chairs, to pieces

just like his soft-boiled eggs

at breakfast.


by Jesse Phares Heindl

a little hole in her eye

where the piece pokes through,


of her art

of her art


and start,

a thousand and one links, but they never do

D j i n n of the bottle,

she hangs on

a hook

each link is a lieshe hangs on your eye,

wears the room in full size

kind of girl



and Z

her orbit,


onto paper

where she pants, and she pants, her skin in a roll, no matter what, truth slips through the hole