by Melissa Broder

Melissa Broder

He said drop your notebook
the temple is everywhere.

He said a magic mushroom
would eliminate tennis nose
and lend feather atmosphere.

We dropped the drop.
Chimney memory
oceaned away.

I felt like a holiday pumpkin.
We were very sweater
holding thicket vigil
until plants curled.

In a different version
we remained in the rift
between breath and vision
and we're still under that flap.

In this version we exited
to confront a restaurant.

I got touchy
about ranch dressing.

He knew how to take a staircase
from stem to lesson.
He didn't need California.

I made it about object itself:
stem and mushroom.

I couldn't stop
collecting spores.

I was shoehorning
stamens into a container
trying to architect
the whole diorama.

My arms were like cupboards.
I wouldn't let go of the pipe.

Dementia field
was another kind
of photosynthesis.

He pointed to the staircase
and I said ethanol.
I put him in a locker
and entered the grain range.

It was cannibal tundra.
I was conductor.

My eye was a centimeter
but I never drank
a pink girl drink.

Last updated April 03, 2023