She says I have a painless quality. I swallow a goldfish to
see the future. It was an accident, sort of–but these things
happen. We arrange her crown of flowers, straighten the
blue Valentino lace dress. The more feminine she is
below the neck, the more impact. I brush pink glimmer
on her full lips. It is called “Kitten.” We uplift our mood swings
and mood rings back into raw form and start over. My own
reflection, set in slate, the years creep in like worms to
soil, dirt falls out of my mouth.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 3.
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