i want to count time in the white black holes of my basketball

i want to count time in the white black holes of my basketball

LILY ROSS

when my mom talks loudly on the phone in the middle page of my book, i could kick her off the small overlook that’s to the left of my house — she wouldn’t die or anything, maybe break a bone or two and skim her belly when the cat cracks inside me and the goldfish whimpers that it’s time for his daily walk.

i let plans for the day divide into other plans, confide in each other what they wanted in the first place out of life’s spinning cauliflower — but all i ate was roasted broccoli for dinner, which is actually my favorite. all of my dreams are too realistic, shaved heads and breakups on the living room couch and get togethers in shakespeare’s closet, while my dreams are dreaming for wolf-cat hybrids and school principalles covered in cannabis and apple watches counting time in the white black holes of my basketball.

the wind can’t take me down anymore like it did during that hurricane whose name i can’t remember —- when the schools shut down and slimy candles slimed the house, and life felt less blinding and more temporary.