Slime Girl

August Smith


Mired in my bed turned to grime and mud
I twist my head towards the window of slime

and the world’s face is melting off. The mountains of soft
gelatin, an arcing tree of ooze, sticky people on gooey bikes,

blobby cars dragging snail trails, boats sinking into puddles,
every building a viscous trap slow-collapsing to its jellied center.

I glance at the clouds and they hang low, dripping
in gradual globs and splattering the small dogs at the park.

When last horizontal you said I was so gentle.
I am not gentle, I cooed, quietly, as a feathered breath, as I touched

your hair like a cloud passing through the corner of a square.
I am not gentle at all, I said as my cells relaxed into a purple sludge

and I became absorbed into the slurry of every murky thing,
sunk into your amber like the bug trapped in a misty millennium.

You immerse-dissipated and all things the less rigid liquifying
my syntax into fluxing a noisy drivel. I softened into the bed

softened into me
and the dissolving world became a big wet lick.