Plastic

published in The Void Volume 17, Issue 4

I’ve been trying to pull a hair out

of my mouth without anyone

noticing for hours

My hair is the color of sand and

it can be found on everything

I listen to it snap like plastic

It is hard to fall asleep with a hair

sliding down your throat

I’ve started to wrap my head in loose scarves

they are all my mother’s smelly scarves

the ones covered in flowers

I water my scarves once a week and wake

to the sound of hungry birds

stuck in impossible air

I recall images of our earth

as seen from beautiful places and

it looks like a Monopoly board

Paper pasted on plastic

the colors bright enough

for even these birds where there are no worms

there are no trees

there are only flowers made of thread

so I feel sorry for them

atlantis

as the city sinks we sit

on the deflating air

mattress and test

our teeth for cavities.

Tongues running over and over

and over I ask

if you can feel any?

You open wide

I roll over and peer inside you

all dark, just full of breath

and steam. You’re good, I say

and watch you shut your mouth

then wipe it with a sleeve.

We nearly feel the floor now,

the air escaping beneath us like

gas clouding out from a car

idling.

hover

I hover by trash bins, palm the key which feels weird

to throw out, impossible to recycle, useless

to hold on to when it would undoubtedly end up

with all my other unsolved things: dry

pens and prescriptions not performing

the way I would’ve liked, cough syrup

does it ever really expire? like the wine bottle

we opened on a birthday but were too tired

to drink, it sits acidic in the pantry

because there is no room in the fridge full

of empty jars and Tupperware lids, all gifts

from friends dropping by to wish me well.