In Your Radioactive Play,Luisa A. Igloria
jumbo shrimp will float down the oxymoron river. Islands licked into shape by cats’ paws materialize among the turtle people holding congress in the reeds, though they would rather sing somewhere bright, like Broadway. Only the grass refuses to believe in the power of reruns, fading properly when the season’s over. A fey child sets a hand loose in the field, watching it return with Raul Julia’s tango footwork, one turnip still attached to a string of people, half a dozen dolls’ heads and a silken ribbon. Considering the pig has devoured the runaway pancake, there’s time for a nap beneath the crater’s quivering lip. Oceans away, cara mia, I can see you working the voice loose from its bones of anger. Flex your tender muscles and touch something. Grow words and lightning bolts from the tips of your fingers, cilantro and dill on your windowsill. The sky’s cobalt is bluer than water. Ophelia would have seen it if she’d opened her eyes. I’d make her get up if she didn’t, fluff her ringlets, dress her in rayon. Jumping out of the pond and wringing her soaked brocade she’d finally admit she’s always preferred dark mascara, chocolate milk and vampire movies. She’ll smooth her cheeks, take vitamins, go back to school; she’ll even shrug when, occasionally, she cheats on her vegetarian diet.
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