Fever On Amazon Prime
Pillows bought at Target were my downfall since forever. My spine was tilting towards a direction and I’ve had four Tylenol tubes already floating in my throat. Silk fucks with my head and fucks my skin to slide a velvet tongue on my cheeks. I was feverish and you had already taken out the cheap knife to kill the watermelon into submission, oh fuck my throat is growing a tumor, I swear this shit is going to deform me. I had swallowed copious amounts of mango salt water throughout the day, fried wheat balls with holes to take in the sinful taste, it was my only saving grace that day. When 2am came, I sat on the couch that you assembled earlier and looked forward to death. You were trying to save me by naming me beautiful and sucking lightly my dark melanin discarded by the fever. I was an infant, raw gutter tanks filled with blue blood under my sheath. The cat tree behind my head was raining confetti plume, I inhaled it to stop vomit at the back of my uvula. The Archangel spoke in Russian snow and death beds were made in abandoned bathtubs and I asked if Daniel Craig is allowed religion not sponsored by the Queen or the British Monarchy. They’re the same, CIA is fruiter for our future siblings, you meant it and I heard fear in your best French accent. I could feel the heaviness puncture my forehead and I saw myself as a safe haven for ground nesting bees. The hope before the height of fever always makes us face truths, nuclear faults that survive and perspire under our armpits and before anyone can point them out, we douse our pits in heavy deodorant heads. I felt the height of my lies that had brought me to this point, laying on this couch. I felt the need to tell you how I wished instead of Amazon Prime, I had membership to HBO GO. The side pocket pouches on the couch seemed like a conspiracy to scathe off DNA in a bigger plan for Amazon world domination. Between breathing and trying to swallow, I saw Daniel Craig survive a Russian Militia attack, leaving the only American cast member to die a horrible death by bear trap and satellite bullet and I thought how we are all one and many politics. Can I have just a small piece? You were bending over my face and watermelon was soup on my stomach. I faintly remember you pulling up my shirt to expose red stains of water, I could feel blood taking refuge inside my belly button and I felt like I was home to someone. I drifted into unconsciousness as Stalin’s illegitimate son was assassinated with a millimeter and disappointing hulla. When I looked at Google, I read it as I’ll Tell You In Prison by Chloe Caldwell, a deep sense of regret washed over me and I was soft without muscle.
Nooks Krannie is a Palestinian/Persian female writer from Montreal, Canada. Her most recent poetry chapbook is "candied pussy" published by Thistlemilk Press. She tumbls at http://nkrannie.tumblr.com/ and instagrams @nookskrannie.
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