I will love you even when you are transfigured into knives. The glitter is gold in you. Please, as you do so well, play me “Tidal Wave Made of Ten Thousand Balls of Yarn (Yellow)” on a baby grand constructed of tinkling skeleton keys inserted into frozen locks. I will love you so much more for it. Please, unfold my crippled limbs from a suitcase so I might finally fit within this cubbyhole chiseled in a ripple on the ocean. I will feed you fancy seeds of alabaster for it. The lens of a lighthouse in reverse will dwindle you down into mere figment, and I will hold you so close to me in these invisible hands. Or, you will be inverted in the refraction and go wholly woozy in the light waves’ change. Or, if some bright illumination strikes the lens, it will set your downy parenthetical wings on fire. I will call you Icarus Twin then. With the stilled blank air in our lungs prepared for cursing horses eating their way through burning orchards, you will sing a hushed lullaby that will put to sleep the venom in every wasp’s abdomen. You will extract a bone in the shape of me from behind the tiny animals hibernating in your soundproofed lungs. These words will be a recitation. I repeat, these words will be. These words will be want or won’t or wondering what doors your keys will throw open or slam shut.

Brennen Wysong