a too small
raw brown pioppini mushroom
extended from the girl’s left orbital socket;
out it peeked from an old, yet inexplicable,
healed through hole in her flesh.
the doctors she conferred with in a state of horrified panic
told her there were more, anchored to her ethmoid bone;
the pressure and the angle of the gloved hand palpating yankingly
is a feeling rooted way down in her gut.
she stayed frazzled, pointing out such a small cap
to each potential savior in that dreamscape,
doling out a narrative of panic, alerting them all to her allergy,
and the concomitantly swollen scallop edges of her tongue.
strangely enough, when she awoke, she did not concern herself
with her eye places—for her mouth, she knew immediately, was far too small;
the seashell gifted her in a mirror located right inside her mind’s eye
transferred seamlessly to the one in her apartment bathroom.
she is sure now—the horror is clear,
her dreams deal in
pastel color and pain,