by Maya Owen
Just because I’m very high on acid,
doesn’t mean your hands aren’t two mares, foaling in the night.
Place them in my rapture machine
& get in the backseat.
Look, kid— no one knows
how this works, just
how it doesn’t. I never said
it would make sense.
Didn’t your mother tell you: you can’t wish for more wishes. You can’t make a dress out of a beehive. You can’t believe she’s not just going to walk down the stairs & start making you pancakes.
Okay, kid, make a wish. No, not that one.