I sleep across orchids. We hear hums from a kugel fountain. We wait for mist to rouse us. I kneel at 4 am. I curl my chin atop moss, cling my palms on the granite sphere, and smother my cheeks when I’m discarded.

When you comb your wet hair, I collect shower remnants on my tongue. I am a casino when beads meet my chest. You are Christmas.

Fizzing from the conversation carpet ignites into knees blood. Until fingernails etching forehead antlers, red static stamped onto skin, remind me that November had been three months inside an ornament. You’ve promised to unfurl me onto my own terrarium, but you must refill your mister first. I will go septic if December exceeds 31 days. Your fertilizer injector, Expired. Your orchids, Corrugated. Contrails lining the sky with a snapped spine. Mourners as canes bowing beneath mausoleums.

Surprise us soon. Something like a waterpik. Gums rubbed, plaque blasted. Mastering reconciliation in a dental chair.

Satiate us with Eucharistic snowflakes, to keep track of how long we’ve knelt in this nursery for.

Isabelle [Newson] is from Los Angeles. Find her work on ExPat Press, World Hunger, and Michigan City Review of Books. @izzynews0n

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