ISSUE: Fall 2023
There would have been chaos,
confetti mined from the cliffs
of Michoacán. A jet punk,
hot-pink spectacle. Carnival-
worthy. Years clowned,
my chubby climb toward
something at the top
of a staircase. A spotlight
on it, collapsing into a series
of songs when touched.
Graduating from untouched
to always. There would
have been a piñata filled
with bell jars, with mango streets,
pimpled caesuras. A pig
spitting in the corner.
Combed and breathing,
there would have been
an undead cousin,
unrotting in an apartment
for two weeks with no call,
creating himself a slice of cake
with a frosted flower on top.
