Just like that it was gone— the casually engendered peace—
it had been as subtle as insulation.
But the video game blinks a blaring directive.
Gain powers and learn desperation.
So I cut through the Won Kok parking lot. I have made pink clouds my background
and to the up-left, a strand of pigeons, still on their wire in the rain.
I hunker down, blurry with prednisone. Lupus lamentably does not mean I’m a werewolf— merely that I have been bitten by a wolf— (on the face, ill-favored).
I am coursing along the wide street.
Mrs. Lin the psychic resides in a hut of raspberry pavlova, and she is In.
I listen to a song, hoping for provocation
but find it both very weird and just ok.
I call him my sweet log of marzipan. I call him my pavlova. Chewy.
To be loved and also sick—this is a new vibe—
a rosemary tree a moth in a beer stein two socks, Jack Frost apartment in the morning.
I keep getting hit by the desire to make a tent of my jacket and just hope I’m forgiven.
Allison Hummel is based in Los Angeles. Her work has recently appeared in Pacific Review, Rougarou, SLANT, Anastamos, and GASHER. Three pieces were nominated for the Best of the Net 2019 by Rabid Oak and Counterclock journals.