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To Andrea Drugay's previous pieceFuschia, or, For heaven's sake I left the light on by mistake Saint Francis translates metaphors and hogs the covers on Sunday mornings, yellow apple afternoon haze between my thighs and bedsheets taste like glue. Maybe that's where we got surreal, you leaned across the bar to me and said, I hope your dog runs faster than he laps. It wasn't funny when I woke up, but that's what history is for. I can't talk to that guy in my dream because we're going hiking tomorrow, in the middle of the night if we pay the man in the silver boat. He thought I was a Pisces, fishy swimming dreamy girl I thought he was a dragon, blowing smoke and flaming air. Something about the Eiffel Tower and we climbed on a bus that slipped into the waves, a jellyfish, a manatee, a James Bond style rotating white vinyl circular waterbed bar, just you and me smoking coral reefers watching the sea weed pass us by. Enter mom, who offers paper and colored pens so we can draw our guns. I've got a massive AK, hoisted shoulder to hip, gleaming pink in the night, with bullets hand-crafted from chips of the Berlin Wall, blessed by the Pope, and heavy like foreign films. You've got a pearly one, a golden .25 that spits out fireflies. We pack our pistols, launch due north, and now the bridge is weak. I breathe, and splinters fall a screaming, hollow hundred stories down to flaming bushes burned by overlords or snakes who threw the party that I'm at right now, or yesterday, but both because my car won't start and when you tell me this is nonsense I can only answer, Fly. I blink pink pistols from my eyes and smell the silent stuff that morning cooks. Like Highland plaid, my thoughts converge in navy, hunter, oxblood, saffron, chestnut, cherry, and ink.
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