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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?


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