Alchemy

A goldfish spoke then cried. A lizard made love then went out for a pack of cigarettes. An animal of pain found the good life. Daisy wanted to drown as she squeezed out the last of the dish soap into the big tub of dishes. There are many modes in the terrarium, some unsung, some one-eyed. Developers christen us, not with somewhere to live, but with highways of future, operating yellow and white cranes like sickly mandibles at the progressing boundary of the back bay. He had been preparing for this moment daily, like a white electrical outlet cut into the fading yellow wainscotting and the sun slowly widening a perimeter of light around the outlet's perimeter through a window of imperfect shade. His name was Robert Bank. He had taken an interest in spoons. It's hell sometimes, he finally wrote to a distant relative on the back of a bucolic postcard, but at least I believe in something now.

Nick Maurer is a writer and visual artist from California. He received an MFA from UC Irvine. Recent poems have appeared in Poetry South, The Florida Review, McSweeneys and other journals. He currently lives in Costa Mesa, CA. Website: jnmaurer.com

Published April 18 2022