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My Jell-O Fantasies I didn’t know you always kept pliers nearby, that your widow's peak was a radio. I knew that you wore a shirt under your shirt, because I saw it’s white ribs when your sweater rode up your back. I knew that if you ever had the chance you would swell like a spider’s web. That your small hands were oceans when the cow’s spotted tongue licked them clean of grass. At dinner, when you cried, your eyes remembered the small, strict pulse. It wasn’t my hand you held, it was something else, like fingers wrapped around the busy fence. At dinner, when you cried, I was looking at you, your body nervous with marbles. You said it tickled while I dreamt of rolling you across a tablecloth. Thomas Patrick Levy's work can be found in various journals and publications. A native of New Jersey, he currently resides in Southern California. next table of contents |
