In the feral rivers, fish dream of scuba diving in air, floating past our windows and admiring our most habitual habitats. In aquatic versions of The Odyssey, Odysseus’s dog doesn’t recognize him, sniffs another man’s sandals. Beastly, violent beauty paints the terrain with rain. I spill sparkling water on my dress, and a red stain flows out from my interested breasts. What commands womanhood but hazy procreation? Water wipes away our past, stitches a sordid future. Through the bloody koolaid, my nipples peak at decency like voyeurs.
Miniature Moon 