In the Castle of No Satisfaction
Rebecca Hazelton
I thought
your hair
across the grid of a pillow’s weave
was a code I could input for flying
I thought
your hair
across the grid of a pillow’s weave
was a code I could input for flying
A cold sea to continue:
our facets rise like curious merfolk, tattooed
with a doctor scribble—we must have been
young or writing with our left hands.
what is it like?
lightning, clearly;
all atomic foofaraw;
the glint on the scales of a trout.
You’re such a tenderheart,
the boy teases. Here, let me
show you.
I would hold up the Triforce above my head:
But I, being new, have only this lantern
And this rupee I found in a bush
Tread softly because I only have three hearts
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