Catherine Pikula '13
We eat the same meals every week.
Red velvet cupcakes with a side of
ten minutes to go. We make it work or
swallow African cave spiders whole.
Our heads like TV screens flash images
out of context. The cats are tired.
We say I love you then kiss.
We say I don’t love you then kiss.
We buy pills from the men
in lab coats, we don’t feel
better. We watch ourselves
collapse in the shower.
We are not this bad. In bed
we dream of eating roses,
cut each other’s bodies open.
From blood spatter, we determine
the weather will be rain. For weeks
we float in the ocean gelatinous
as giant squid. On ice
we find capers and rapists.
Aliens, we prove exist.
Without hieroglyphs to hold,
we mistake hands for helicopters,
err submarines for birds.