There are 8-12 planets percolating in my belly and my mouth is a small glossy square barb- wired shut. I go out to dinner, nod puppetly. Sit with my hands folded prettily under a chain of prismy scales. The head of a major cloud formation picks clownfish corpse off of my plate. He offers me while polka dots sealed into blue glass atmosphere. If I’ll only just smile big carnival with flashing buzz for him. Something with tiny claws taps on the backs of my canines. I need to get myself one of those viable exit strategies. I need to get myself one of those trap door bellybuttons for easy live purge action.
Daniela Olszewska Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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