K a t i e L o n g o f o n o
At the Bottom of a Fishbowl
One morning your room is different.
The bed is where it's always been,
the rug and desk, but it's all washed out.
Your tongue prickles with soap.
You don't remember
letting out all those words,
but why else is there so little
saturation? Why else the big bowl
of the sky, the sun an eye
winking at you, the wind a fist
tightening, the walls
a holy mess?