by Amber Halo
Monday, October 21, 2002
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Not quite yet filled to the cusp; surface tension holding it all back like warning mothers on cliffs' edges, children wrapped behind their skirts. My head turns, and the world undulates shifting and sparkles on the edges of things where corners normally rust, and dull eyes hide beneath outrageous masks. The wall beside me bulges left and right but not once threatening to crumble; the integrity of its structure not at all linked to the bulbous display of expansion and contraction.
Then all at once the mother gasps, and silent toes scrape listlessly against falling edges and certain clatter. Children held at bay no longer, the glisten drains from the world, one tilt of the head too far; running down cheeks now; fallen apart. And the dullness returns.