WA 6 Final

Sunlight. I open my closet and read between the rows and rows of cashews. I wear loose (everything is loose), thin cotton. A white snowstorm begins to form on the peak of my nose, and only my fingers are cold. My hair, radiant red, devours the oxygen in my tiny room, blazing with the heat of the flames I can feel on my shoulders.

Outside, my body accidentally spins, stealing the eupnoea of others. Noxiously, I bask. I pass into Strawberry Fields. …nothing is real. Tripping over the unlikely light, I can inevitably see. Laughing up a million stairs, and zippered into the meals of a few small nations. My hands flap their frozen wings like feeding hummingbirds. Artificial amber light is forced through angry bulbs. Miniscule details float through the rays with uncaring concern. Time is unexpectedly stopped. A fleeting sensation, suddenly my heart is broken. A blind spot with rich glaring contrast. Contrast: I am enlightened. I stare into the eye of God. Omnipresent and all knowing. Unblinking. As a soaring ginger, I can convincibly masquerade as a windy dancer, immobile, begging, watch me move. I can dance- down the stairs wearing my only pair of black pants. I don’t wear a watch, but there is a silver spoon hanging from my neck. I am tiny again, a victim (of euphoria). A growing and shrinking Alice in a modern world. As I walk, translucent light solidifies, bouncing between mirrors and becoming trapped. Alive, I am in intense rapture. Men seem to pluck it out of the air before it reaches the people tilting their heads, and keep it in a paper bag.

My heart is not the only place that’s bleeding. Snowflakes engulf my visions, fluttering thier ballet innocently into my life. I can run wildly and never go anywhere. I see through the laws of an old camera, filled with memories of low steps and parakeets. Would you like a cup of tea? I once sat at that table. A rug on the floor. I flow like liquid through the streets, and call out over the heads of less happy people, what time is it? Someone from the corner of half a block a way calls back, four forty-eight. There is always time for dancing. A secret. Sometimes when I am alone, I can see my sister’s twin. Alone. And pumpkin pie reminds me of you.

A postcard of a surfing koala and my hair are the only verse in the white, white room.
Only when I pass the window can I see myself over the tiny shrubs, unmoving.