Gyroscope Review 16-1 - Page 44

A Rose Colored Pony by Laurin DeChae Pink meat overdone is ripe underneath stretched skin: crude lines of worship fold over the blanket that coils me like a sausage. It smells like my great grandmother’s house or maybe it is only because I am thinking of her and needing to remember to prove I hadn’t forgotten about her yet. There’s something about things that are sunlit and flowering that reminds me of unfolding. I remember the first time I felt like foliage. I smudged pollen on my eyelids, swept scent on my collarbone. I prepared myself for death. She falls, they laugh. She rocks against polyester carpet knitting memories with hands she doesn’t recognize. I will sit where she sits. Spread, I was leafy and blossoming and needing to see the sky for what it was—that dome of arched prayer. If this is my trajectory, let the fall be full of wolves. Where I swell, you swell. Where I tense, you sink. How the mind loses its rocker, how the seat shifts shapes. Her eyes have marbled. Glassy, they only reflect windows as she sits staring with tissues in her sleeve and a butterscotch clenched in her teeth. If my hands could fold, petals would unfurl to lips, uncoiled, a mouth breathes. Gyroscope Review !36