The Opiate, Spring Vol. 13
Fire Drill Kim Cope Tait Light bends like a question across blades of green grass as we shift our weight from one foot to the other. Black fabric collects heat as we gather mass, expanding impossibly, becoming other. Something in the belly slides away from itself as our irises graze the moment like tongues, taste vaguely of what moves us. Self upon self gathers like an ocean wave, restricts the lungs. I could climb inside that gaze, though I cannot hold it, a reflection and a nest in a single instant. Time collapses on itself, and spills me into that blue orb again, though it is a future I can’t remember. Danger clear, we make our way back, splitting from the singular, ignoring what we lack.
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Photo by Sue Ball
