Look at me. Riding in a taxi, dressed-up as a
whole tube of lipstick. Look at you, levitating
above the fountain in a tuxedo. Are we even
alive anymore? I cannot feel my feet. My
shoes are two tiny rosebuds. The inside of
me, in where I illuminated last night, where
the seismic thing happened, is it foam now? I
have painted my tongue. Have you painted
yours? I know we are not real. I know we are
just skating over this place.
I know that soon we will become crabs.
I have already molted– feel it: I am soft-shelled now.
Your ten legs are pulling me into doom, or paradise.
I can’t tell the difference between the two.

Erica Miriam Fabri is a Brooklyn-based poet and the author of two books: Morphology (Write Bloody Publishing) and Dialect of a Skirt (Hanging Loose Press). Morphology was the winner of the Jack McCarthy Book Award and Dialect of a Skirt was a finalist for the Paterson Poetry Prize and included on the bestseller lists for Small Press Distribution and the Poetry Foundation. She teaches writing at Pace University and College of Staten Island. ericafabri.com