STA/SIS
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."