By: Naomi Bartlett
This is not a fungus. Once
I planned to live forever,
eternity ad nauseum,
until baby’s-breath and contraceptive sunrise found me
laughing in the dirt, drifting between
delirium and pink echo, post climax.
This is what tropism is.
I’m lying in bed considering you.
Yesterday I remembered allergies
and today I drank a whole bottle of gin
while tangerine juice dripped
down your chin and into last year.