Why I Am and Am Not from Your Planet
By Deborah Kreuze
I gathered every chair from which you watched my demise and made a stadium. From the central blood-sand I have allowed to spring a carnation, bone-lacy, lip-firm. It is not the carnation’s fault that its leaves and petals tingle, and it is not my fault that the stadium’s outer tiers lately chunk and fall to earth. It would have been simpler for the carnation to stay underground, but it would not have been a carnation then, and the pink sustainability certification placard might instead have been affixed to the pulsing asshole of the dreams you’ll never remember.