Ally Harris


We a standing woman in a twisted sailor dress, we the turquoise teardrop eyelids and the butch blowdried pouf of shoulder. We the pet store on the corner, clink of heels, varicose veins and my god woman the street is closing, the store a soft box in bankrupt empty over the old expressway, kids jumping out of cars to catch the turtles. We the shush vehicle, we rain a bitch drum echo on repeat. The peach fuzz din of we the kids in frenzied highway toss, cat tails by the handful over guardrails. We the woman in a twisted sailor dress, acceleration aimed at bastard sons, tongue like a pyramid of bees.






Purple line, manhattan to queens. climbing into an aquarium in the attic and looking directly into the noses of my friends.