by Kenan Ince

In my fantasies I’m always walking
downstairs in my sensible flats.
Something about them arouses me:
the way they can be so easily slipped
off, their black skeletons crumpling
in my closet until I am ready to give
them flesh. They are no animal.
They are as little as possible
between me and the caress
of the earth on my feet. Oh,
how Mike Huckabee would love
for me to take them off
and float through the halls
behind him like a caveman’s
wife, hand on my swollen belly!
How his mouth would swell
on the aerodynamic curved tip
as I insert my foot, softly,
into his mouth. How
he would suck as if to aspirate
out the vital part of me.
And how he will gasp, his lungs
collapsing into the garden
of his ribs, his words scurrying
before they are spoken
from the shell of his mouth.


You’re thumbing through a stack of books, looking for a line that hits home. Which one does the trick?

Sometimes, she wished that she could open up her head, peek inside, and see what all the fuss was about.
Yes, enjoy that metabolism while you can.
We did not know what our waste would bring to bloom.
When does growing older transform into growing old?