Key Lime King I dream in marzipan castles and pools of silver ink. Vanilla blood races through my veins as apple thunderstorms reverberate my tissue. I have visited the caramelized craters in my brain once, but they were too sweet. My mother called this morning, she told me that Tonight they predict icing will melt the skies. I can see you dancing on the snow hills, coconut in your hair. Raspberry wafts under my skirt, lifts me over a breeze. I never told you how it felt: The sugar in my eyes stung when you wiped it away And it hurt terribly when you Tied my hair back with hazelnut stems. I find comfort in my licorice voice box; I wish I could sleep there.
Excerpt The Church bell rings outside my window, and the loyal fraction of the congregation pour out from their weekly rituals, out the overstated doors to the street. The car horn blares, the squirrel building a nest by my window jumps. Then the screams, the yells, the tears. I’m watching in reverse, a warped moment of Déjà vu that I might’ve stopped, that I might have cared, that I might feel for. I can’t – and couldn’t - do anything, but the bitter epiphany smacks of an obvious realization I missed at some point in my shepherded development as a human being. The word ‘Nonsense’ is a misnomer. Nonsense is defined as a communication that is written in human language, but lacks coherent meaning. It lacks ‘sense’. But if nonsense isn’t the word to describe the accidental death of a woman walking out of a church, then what is the word? Fate? Causality? Predestination? I grasp for a name, but every time I find myself standing between Nonsensical and Illogical. If death itself is life’s strongest catalyst, as I believe, then I am but a reagent – consumed by the reaction.
Darling Flames, Set Me Free. Here they lieThose shreds of her tattered heartdiscarded and misused – about their icy tomb. Soon they’ll be kinder for her fire. She welcomes the pain of the burn And yearns for Anythingexcept the numbness that drowned her existence. ‘Til nothing else was left. but the hollow shell and mask of who she once was.
The Rituals We Practice.
Pack lightly, remove the cellophane. pull back the lid. Stumble slightly from the pungency of her scent. Slowly take her from the box and twirl her softly with your fingers. Bring her to your mouth, hold her between your lips. strike the match. Breathe in, get lost in her. Breath out, pause. Repeat.
To Debussy, with Love Sometimes I listen to “Clair de Lune” and cry. When I hear it I like to take off my clothes and look in the mirror and smear my mascara so it’s just me and my eyes. And I stare and I gaze and I wait but my eyes don’t tell me anything. It’s then that I cry. My hair has been getting really red, just like my mother’s was. In the sun it’s practically crimson which makes me want to rip it out because now I’ll be the only one left with red hair. But then I remember how warm she was and I stop myself and hum the 5th measure and breathe. I’ve been going to the cemetery to see her a lot lately. I wish I could bring your music there but I can’t because I’m afraid it will wake up the corpses and they just want to sleep Maybe I could take you out to dinner sometime and you could tell me about you and bring your piano too. And then maybe this winter you and I could go on a trip to see the frozen ocean and we could drink hot hot tea and you could play your music for me and we could crawl through the itsy bitsy, teeny tiny hole that your soft white keys will create into heaven. Emma Perlwtiz