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other-worldly

ursula

putting on lipstick redder

than the sunburnt flesh

of those above her,

shading in cold

eyelids darker purple

than sea organs slated

to be ingested

up there too

 

readying herself

amongst the kelp,

slithering her bouncy

breasts on seabed

floor

in crawling her resolute sense

of contractual abuse

nearer to her naive victim

princess in pursuit

 

she remembers suddenly:

her medicine for ADHD

is ready at the pharmacy,

and she needs sensitivity toothpaste too—

 

she’ll pick some up on her way

across atlantic avenue

before they close at 6;

then better equipped

with concentration

and mint scrubbed tongue and gums,

her evil can continue—

flippers traded in for

mute mouthed runs

the caravel hotel

found amongst the macau mirrors, within the mass produced black lacquer box,

teacups, saucers, lids and pots strategically placed, a pink paper slips,

 

printed less daintily than ornate pastel patterning, a warning emits:

crush the pills beneath the pillow, swallow whole the peanut brittle, grow a meter

 

but then drown in bathtub ink. black tongues lapping at oxygen, an inch left, seizing 

each millisecond, for a sip of steaming air—she wakes up panting, thirsting,

 

thoughts are breaking, lapping, looping, and she feels the patterns printed in her skin.

she can feel the pads across embossing, the veins of still whole craft palpating.

 

you know the contours of the cruising, the dimensions of the chips and flakes.

you wake, bodies heavy in an ancient state.

seared

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,

seared.