by Mariel Fechik
In the other world, everything smells like cherries.
Every phone call is the news of someone’s death,
and every cigarette is candy. In the other world,
you tell me you do not love me every day, and our
bed is made from cedar trees. The horses run rider-
less and frightened, chased by men with bottles for
weapons and collarbones made of ice. The plains
are a burnt orange in the other world, and everyone
reeks of a longing to understand.
In the other world, she never died, and everything
tastes like gunmetal. Everyone washes themselves
in coldness and sleeps in the bath. In the other world,
I tell you to keep the dogs at bay, and our bed is made
from palm leaves. The ocean laps at sand that is still
glass, riddled with shipwreck. The mountains tumble
down themselves in the other world, and everyone
speaks to each other in tongues.
In the other world, everything sounds like a heart-
beat. Everything is made of tinsel, multi-colored, and
glows in the dark. In the other world, we tell each
other every secret, and our bed is made from cattails.
Grief slithers in and out of our ears, only frightened
away by singing. The grasslands mumble mutely to
themselves in the other world, and everyone knows
only their own names.