And when it fails, it fails
continually, the paper dolls
in their mechanical operetta.
Our pockets fill with voluptuous
words like aplomb and orangeade.
I ask for burnt and you give me wing,
and so we go on like this, sistered like
cells to the dark openings, the bracelet
of light marking the horizon. A trap
door comes loose and the bed falls
through three floors of aquariums,
all kissing fish and fiberglass plants.
I ask for umbrella and you give me feather.
Our sentences become sodden, uninhabitable.
Kristy Bowen is the editor of Wicked Alice. She lives in Chicago.