Jamisyn Gleeson13 February 2018
Your fungus / begins to / age inside / its new / porcelain cage.
Is sponge-like, encouraging
soapy suds, moisture
to develop in its hide.
You pull at its hair
and come away
I am afraid of the bees. I can’t pass through them. My hair doesn’t coil into antennae and I have no wings; my vertebrae is flat and fearful and all too human. Oh, how they swarm and shiver in golden rivers. Dew drop, dew drop, forbidden fruity sweat.
When you were five and I a head taller
we snapped the arms of plastic dolls
in the hopes of making them bend.
Though he wears a rich coat burning brighter than the sand of any desert, the twinkle in the lion’s amber eyes has long since faded.
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