Fish and Annette, husband and wife
to other people,
steeped liberty cap mushrooms, drank the brew,
made love on the concrete floor.
The air rippled and bloomed.
Spaces between thoughts filled with skin.
Breath, the pattern of pores, jasmine scent
and something darker, like amber.
Suddenly, a skitter of claws. Animal whimpers.
The air matrixed. Oxygen sucked away.
Were there tiny beings in the cream mix?
Annette and Fish decanted the syrup fat to the floor.
Naked, they waded and splashed.
Creatures rose like thistledown, popped in sparkles
Annette and Fish could feel like soft orgasms.
Still naked, they ran into the rain, disappeared for years.
Two decades later, I met Annette again.
She wanted to tell me about that night.
As she spoke, the air quivered.
I heard the sob inside the sweet.
The urge to wreck everything
and set those creatures free.
