by Aubrie Cox
Heavy rain. The ceiling of your skull is caving in layer by layer of baklava-thin bone.
Slipping from your slow, dumb fingers, the glass cracks but doesn’t shatter.
You wonder what would happen if your head really did collapse. If your brain would learn to absorb the hydroxylapatite flakes. If your mutation would lead the next stage of human evolution.
How this could possibly not kill you. Joint instability. Chronic musculoskeletal pain. A lifetime of bending, but never breaking.
When you sleep, you dream:
The way a doctor’s lips press together before he murmurs malignant. Harbor bells. The speed of sound to the mind’s darker shores. A raccoon waddles into the sunlight.
Savage MK II
into the woods
Star Charts for the Mystic Who Parties with Scientists
He has the strength of the ages inked into his skin. He has constellations waiting to supernova in a chain reaction down his spine. He has the same genetic mutation as you. He has to calmly sit on roadside curbs for drug-hungry police interrogations.
You look fine and constantly lie: “I’m just tired.”
He believes in your psychic dreams. He charts and screens your lovers. He is the occult and God’s right-hand man. You like to think if you weren’t such a liar, you could confront the degrees of fatigue, you could see what he sees.
dreams of Atlantis
comes full circle
Aubrie Cox went to university to write a novel and came out writing haiku. Now, she is an editor for both the online journal A Hundred Gourds and Juxtapositions: A Journal of Haiku Research and Scholarship. Her poetry and prose can be found in publications such as Frogpond, NANO Fiction, and WhiskeyPaper. She sometimes tweets @aubriecox.