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  • Writer's pictureClare


By Kimberley Chia

last night i had a dream that all of our noses

turned into fishing rods. hook, line and

sinking into petroleum air, i try to claw my way

into troposphere, fingernails merging into row boat splinters,

lungs gurgling in self-defence: IS NO ONE SEEING THIS?

at night, the fish circle my chest, barnacles

whittle into bosom, and all around the sharks are singing

in minor. when i ask you to tell me i am not crazy,

you change the subject, twice. you say the fish will die

if i let them. so i turn the water deep green, and they morph into

mudskippers, trawling skin till sickly bone. silence

is a grower

the doctor rises, an octopus shrouded

in purple ink, and tentacles bury themselves

in the gaps between my toes. reassurance strains for grip but

my feet have already de-

tached themselves. threaded metatarsals barely skim

the ocean floor. when they regrow, there are gills

in place of nails. my mother insists there is no flood,

that one day you will leave me. i do not tell her

that it is because i am afraid my body will someday leave


"Kimberley is a BSc Politics & Economics student you don't really need to know about."

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