Donio

the cupid rules us all (to joão),

Joana Coccarelli, (CC by 2.0)

There is a play room at the school, where I was roaming once, late, and I found an Eye growing out of the walls in a sublevel room beneath it. A contraption circulated on the grass flooring. A sculpture from a long since adult fifth grade art program I thought then.

 

While daydreaming in first period, staring at diagrams of a limousine, Suzy Q's white pants as she gets up out of her seat to explain the clouds to our teacher's white hair.

 

All I hear is this:

"Rubber tires, Vitamin fiddle, Mrs. Excellent!"

 

Sometimes, when I look into the Eye hovering over that digging contraption, I picture in my head at least that dark storage area in the basement, me standing there with the feet of a pterodactyl, and I'm in high heels—everywhere I walk that day through the gym, down to lunch, I notice behind me (no one seems to see this, but me) the snakes in everyone else's steps being hatched, like egg to birth instantly.

 

I go to the bikes after school, and get flipped the bird by motorcycle man. I unlock my red Schwinn, and jump on, riding slow home as the snakes hatch from their eggs of those steps.

 

Charlie, big wrestle-eats cheesecake, the filigree of serpents falling behind him as he walks home.

 

I see the new kid on his bike, a blue Schwinn. He skids to a stop.

 

"Name's Danio." He puts out his hand to shake, and I shake it, and smile.

 

"We should be friends."

 

That night we go to the substation, and he hands me mescaline.

 

Chewing pencils, later on, we are hyper by the fire, spitting the wood into the flames.

Fin Sorrel

‚Äč

founding editor:

Mannequin haus

 

Ithaca, NY