Katie Licari

Yesterday I took one of your pills. I let it melt into an acidic wax on my tongue—borderline bile in every crevasse of my mouth. I can’t remember if I fully swallowed it, but it circled my palate for hours.

Today the serpent chased me. I circled around the equator, feet scrambling across the ocean floor. The earthquake in Japan was me, but that’s only what the serpent hissed.

Tomorrow is cake at grandma’s house. It isn’t for anything important, just a forty-something birthday. She’s making white sauce for you—circling around the pot all day.