I’d probably already know the question. I wouldn’t mouth what,
could I divulge it? I wouldn’t cringe between the hair-triggers
against our frame. A goldfish may leap out of its tank, suffocate.
two choices: one is lonely, the other is angry. To tell you the truth,
A hovering orange blimp one morning, or a stranger-danger lesson
a house down. For starters, my hands won’t unclinch, I have eight
and the fruit’s dodgy. You look at me and I know: you no longer smell
if you can reach the end of your wick and Lights out, Baby!
out of shape without the log of your body to contain it. At night
my voicebox sore from croaking But if I know you, I’ll know
Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared in Midwest Quarterly, Foundling Review, Sheepshead Review, Sierra Nevada Review, and Bop Dead City. She is the managing editor of cahoodaloodaling, a interview editor and book reviewer at Up the Staircase Quarterly, and an editorial intern for Sundress Publications.