LIKE MANATEES
My heart is frilly today, clamoring to rise above the breeze. The ocean is out there somewhere, calling to me. I have no natural enemies, just like manatees. They float happily, scarred backs and pups in tow. Peaceful, yes. My tongue is chocolate, melting in your hand. Captivated, I run jubilant over the moon, round the bend.
Crash, crash, crash again. I’m swimming, my blood is full of fish. They shimmer in the sun, long fins and gold blue purpleblackwhite red scales. They come up for air, and my blood is filled with fish. Tiny bubbles pop, all the time, sending sparks of delight to my poor, tired hands. I’m reading them, and my palms say so much. A veritable map of memories, the future spelled out in stars.
There is a way to not let the dark ether cloud invade. Her hips undulate, she catlike stretches, falls and tears off the skin, setting loose the tiny faeries, long tongues of dream curling around her body. I don’t know where she’s going...she seems to have a destination in mind, but she keeps turning, twisting down the maze. I’d help her if I could.
Red pouring nails, her fingers grasp, send pythons staggering for grace. I’d really like to give her my hand, but how can I when the cavern in her chest is getting so full? Someday, love.
Little flowers burst premature into the void, and again, I am lost.
Upon first glance, the Great Stone looks much like any other. Upon second glance, it shards itself into the whites of your eyes. Upon third glance, it is all there is. Upon fourth glance, it’s gone.
A subtle transformation insinuates itself into your sinews, fevers your brow. It happens every solstice, so if you visit the Stone, be prepared. You’ll carry it home and it will lie with you, staining your sheets with its ancient resin. It will strengthen your bones, make talons of your fingernails.
It’s a strange magic, a rainbow of sentiment that will drown you if you don’t guard against it. It licks your intestines, unfurls your veins. I had it stuck in my first vertebrae, just below my skull on the left side. It ran up my credit card, overdrew my bank account. It sent spam to my email contacts, unfriended my Facebook friends, blocked my website.
It will isolate you because it loves you. It wants you, it wants you to want it. It will ring your phone when you’re meditating, it knocks over your trash can, devouring the contents. It stares at you through the window, fondles your butt in the subway. Once, I found it drenched in sweat, tucked beneath my left breast—it clung to me, wouldn’t let go. It smothers you with affection, it is your deepest affliction.
You might as well give in, let it take you.
Because when it leaves (and it will), your life will be palpably desperate. It packed everything you held dear in its duffel bag and snuck off in the middle of the night. It doesn’t write, doesn’t call, doesn’t text, Instagram, Message or post.
It’s just gone, and I don’t know how to live anymore.
WARM COZY QUICKSAND
I caught him, hypnotized by his gorgeous wings
I knew I shouldn’t, but I stroked them
and my fingers glistened with
the intoxicating powder of flight.
He entranced me, covered me with
delicious chloroform kisses
and I sank into the pretty glass jar
where he fed me and doted on me.
I wanted to watch him fly again
but when I pushed him off my hand
he fell, his splendid wings now
heavy with my oil.
Ariana Johns is the producing artistic director of Vampingo Productions, where she produces and creates theatre, art salons, cabaret and short films. She recently completed writing Portable Strangers, a collection of memoir stories and poems about growing up in Greenwich Village in a theatre family. She's written lyrics for three musicals, and her poems and short stories have been included in Thirst for Fire, Samsara, Poetry Forum and Caffeine. She’s an active member of Climate Change Theatre Action.
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