In Observation

The lunar lion sat, perched atop an exclusive hillside bordering a Neptune factory, my twin sister's doppelganger accompanied her. They ate pistachios and gossiped about amino acids.

Her innards spun like a flattening tire. She arrived to the party saddled aback an illiterate pony, escorted by an ebony swan; every time he quacked, it snowed.(One July, a group of children kidnapped him, demanding he chaperon a snowball fight.)They ate oysters and drank cocktails, then retired to the cemetery for an evening of granite and tears.

Impregnated and unaroused, the lunar lion rests in her olivine rocking chair, snorting cookie crumbs; her paper bicycle folds in the translucent rain. She picks up the telephone, though it's deaf, and tries to call me. I'm in the cupboard wearing my Hercules costume, drinking hydrogen peroxide, patronizing tea cups.