For BG, after the masked ball

I had a friend who was all the big cats over the course of the night.  I was a deer with an ankle in a cactus cast. When the confetti went wrong, paint drooped on our chests. What would your research say about a hundred dancers dying chin first and falling to the pollinated floor? I grabbed at my plum. Still steaming somehow in a pile of stained glass lung and wool. Between the piano’s legs, alligator skinned ice cubes rubbed up against each other. One spark after another turned to marble.  Some were no longer afraid to eat them. I have tasted that kind of red before. Flecks of cayenne always in snow of Spanish descent.

by Carrie Lorig

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