halo

Drawing a golden shape Oval because I’m playing The Sims as God, the narrator, unnamed character, the woman in the Hitchcock film with no name, no face. Clever clementine branding, Charlie Christmas nuisance. Thin rinds hit the ground soundlessly like the flight of tissue paper doves. Very low in the mix can you hear the peel and soft landing onto the warped wood of the backyard deck. It smells like allergies, New Jersey pollen where church membership dwindles as politicians get rich. Slow moving Dementor’s Kiss, smooching everywhere under fake Invisibility Cloaks. Smiling angel, sonnets cast toward the wind, upwards: “Take me, O Gracious One”. Flaming hoops into which we jump into because we are told, and also because maybe there is no choice. Head or feet first makes no difference. This here is the Circus birth canal. Through the flaming hoop, past the Lion’s mouth. It’s breath is awful. Calliope music winds up and plays until I find myself on the other side of that hoop, and on the purple pedestal where trumpets sound and cymbals lightly crash. The crowd roars and then I cry out in surprise and discomfort. And suddenly the whole vision goes tunnel, and I am falling backwards.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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