Breathalyzer (from Hypothetical Review, Issue 2)
Today, I will find mom in her rose garden.
Pretending to be two smashed strawberries
hiding behind a not-so-white picket fence,
I will lie next to her.
Underneath our orange blossom sky,
her face is soft and red.
Her hair is hay
or dead grass.
Golden straw, newly spun. Keys
glitter into glowing ornaments extending her long slender branches.
I dream that I am
working in a sardine cannery.
I cut the heads off the fish
until they want me to do it fast,
and so fast
that I worry the world
cannot eat them
Tomorrow, she will find me.