Bridget Lowe

No longer interested in evil, the soul turns on its back at the watering hole, kicks its muscled legs. Everything goes neon pink and green in the noonday sun when I press my thumbs to my little black eyes. My snout, wet with its own abundant grease, smells nothing of threat, of consequence. I put my hands behind my head, I have no bidding to do. My feet go up on the desk, a woman appears at my side. This is what I’ve earned in Eden. The right to close my eyes when the camouflage trousers come wading through the apple blossom’s slough — and the dream of myself as a baby emerging from the mortal body, hoof by gleaming hoof.

Here, I am blowing this little stream of blue vapor into your parted lips. Here, I am placing my hands on your chest in an X while my red nails distract the crowd of impostor lifeguards closing in. Here is the place to raise the tent, I can feel it in my bones. The snake has perfected his skin, he is ready to be lifted and passed. How did I do it? The process was messy, I’d rather not share it, but look, look at us now. Lemon drops and cherry bombs. It’s the eye of the tiger, went the song I used to sing in the basement alone.