grow more hands
if you’re happy and you know it
become a monstrosity
If you’re happy
and you know it
and you really want to show it
give me the skeleton
of everything that’s gone extinct
give me
the fossil of optimism
If you need water
or will wilt
and you know it
sit still
and pray for water
feel yourself wilting
and wilt
Look into the night sky
tell it
I want to put you in a bowl
as if you were a fish
to illuminate my room
as if you were the night sky itself
Look into the night sky and offer it all of your hands
If I’m happy, I don’t know it
I keep growing hands
reaching them out
for something to grab and hold and
gently, over time, make warm
I don’t know why I look at a constellation
and imagine it burning
wanting to place it in my face
so you can watch the inferno of catastrophe
leak from me
I don’t know it yet
if when I learn alchemy
I can twist my face
into an apology
but I can certainly turn myself
wax, mold myself
into the shape of sadness
wearing a crown of strange flowers
and I can melt into a viscous creek
of fantastic colors
Nicholas Alti writes with and about trigeminal neuralgia, depression, addiction, and an affinity for strangeness. He’s an assistant editor for fiction and poetry at The Black Warrior Review. There’s more of his work at Dream Pop, Hypertrophic Press, The Hunger, Pretty Owl Poetry, and elsewhere.