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.

At the bottom of the sea there is an obese sea shell whose identity crisis provides her with the ego of a treasure chest. I stashed a love letter in her throat for you. Just ask her to sing.

The skull and flower preside at opposite ends of the table. Supper time. Forks have forged their identities. A vase stands centered. Did your mother pick those flowers? Or is that her skull? Either way, it's awfully thoughtful of her to flaunt her presence.

The cordless rang three times. Jupiter lit up in her eyelids like a dimmer light bulb. Four rings and God sneezes. A cue to end.