Taryn Andrews


How Dead Elephants Make Planets

Once every second somewhere in my bedroom a star explodes with the brilliance of an entire galaxy. The violent death: Reverberations, the sound of her singing as she goes down. She’s glowing white-hot from a lifelong loss against gravity, and ivory. A big female is on her knees, flapping her ears. She caused a little fire by my books that spread or I wish it did. I needed some words for the next day I knew it would go all over. Go all over real well. When it was all over dirt covered her exposed eye. I blew it off to reveal tonight. The engine won’t stop revving. No, I’m not alone but the way the lot looks is a large distance like the moon’s surface. It runs parallel to the bar floor where a stool grows and where an arm arrives at mine from behind a chair and laces into a close environment. The happiness, the environment, and the obstacle. A phosphorescent dart and my radiation is removed. I’ve been here for hours. I can smoke now. The sunset wrist of a poacher chases and the great wrist barely progresses happiness which is a closed door. You chase it barely. Like a just. Besides, the far knot barely smokes your eye secret is a great chair. Eyes pickpocket planets. You keep telling me new times and I keep changing my location system. Some things we avoid like a fat cat but these yellow and white lines stay and turn on flashing lights where I flag you down. You ask me what I’m doing with a single letter. The sky—a vulture of silence (no more signals) burns off all my helium and I implode a p word.



The Time

I’m not sure if it was the ruby slippers that flickered on in my mind or the time. The time on the alarm clock or the time of day when the swimming pool light bulb becomes a train’s approaching light, a neon blinder you can turn red and switch off. There’s no more chasing, running a man hunting game in the sticky dark night. Nicholas bolts so fast and my plastic slippers keep slipping off. He ran into a black tree, maybe invisibly. It’s ten a.m. now and way past bed time. Ink becomes a train track straight ahead into a moon shaped light child I now call my cigarette. Toffee sticks of one hundreds and seventy twos measure the black lung. Approximately three and two centimeters to the left of these, upon my desk lay tiny envelopes of buttons–  I promised to reattach to your sweater coat or life boat, milky and sinking into a harbor, off Easton’s shoreline. I once prayed upon a blue pillow beneath hi-top sneakers and model airplanes tacked to the ceiling. I asked for the boy who could barely walk. He asked me to dance in the corridor, but for the better I never saw his yellow dog again.

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