1. Her pants are stone and she is all grey, shadow spilling everywhere, metallic shimmering. The way she sits, sinking a submarine. She’s full of covert spying eyes. She wears a grey sweater. Sitting in that cobalt chair, it’s blueness firecrackers.

a. Certainly she isn’t the only female, but she’s the female I have chosen. There’s an immunity about her, a force field of sorts. I would allow a simple exchange of glances for days, but I can’t penetrate stone shadows, and her with all those periscopes. I’m sure she watches me.

2. The boiling point of water, the slow drip, the tug of gravity into sludge. The place is comfort, a tank of comfort.

a. But, but, how do I remain stationary with this much fluttering?

b. It’s an odd juxtaposition, movement and home at once, but there exist ¹ objects that thrive this way.

3. She adjusts her left leg, her right hand reaching below, grabbing, pulling upwards. The weight of her body falling left. But she won’t fall. She’s safe, her left leg tucked under her, folded beneath simple origami ².

a. Her color changes. She’s suddenly light. It’s laughter. She’s laughing and it makes the place sunshine, the way her lips open.

1. What could create such natural light in this place filled with electricity?

b. I don’t want to be forgotten. I want to make a print ³ of myself as I am now, screen it into her marrow, and then even her shadows could not erase something buried so deeply.

c. I’m confident that there is obsidian moving beneath her skin, that her blood is hard, less elastic. Obsidian, a hard stone molten to its original form, volcano ⁴ breathing air, blackening my lungs. When I breathe too close to her, the struggle is apparent.

1. But her movements cause light to shift, and I am sure there’s no word for that. It wouldn’t justify, calling her beautiful. I wouldn’t do her grave such harm.

1. She’s reading a book, and even its spine is grey. Her hair, in this room filled with low electricity, looks grey. Her eyes, hidden under the periscope ⁵, folds fog.

a. How she can read in this darkness? Or, how can she simply sink, a submarine?

________
¹ Mermaids tumbling, their metal fins cut salt into fine powder. They swallow fresh water through their noses, but it doesn’t burn they way it would to you or me. The water doesn’t venture into their brains. Once, when I was a boy, I wanted so desperately to be a warlock. I drank a bathtub full of sea monkeys, in through every orifice.
² The folds are simple. A crease from corner to corner. With the right index finger, pull gently at the mid-section until the skin begins to tear. Small tears are natural.
³ Imagine the museum that houses a lower-cased B half the size of a wall. That’s what I desire most.
⁴ An obsession.
⁵ This is a battle. Enemy combatants have no choice but to revert. I have few options. She’s reverted, and this being so decisive, I must reshape myself into a craft of some sort. Perhaps I can build metal wings to hide in all this smoke.

++