182 days since he last drank water

By Zoey T. McKenzie 

He opens cans of soda pop. 

Lilliputian metal strain, creak and groan, 

and Pffffish-POP! 

Then more metal ripping and another snap. 

He enjoys metal tab under his 

fingernail-smooth on the visible surface, 

and tiny gnarled, sharp claws on the hidden side. 

It makes him feel

–not necessarily alive, but it makes him feel. 

182 days since he last drank water. 

A torrent of bubbles crowd and shove up his nose 

though his nostrils into his mouth 

and up his nasopharynx. 

His eyes water, but the liquid does not 

run down his face like sad tears. 

He grinds them into the corners of his eyelids 

before they mix with fine dust and muddy his cheeks. 

The rough skin on his fists scratch raw 

the delicate tissue around his eyes. 

No water for 182 days. 

He woke into this fever dream 182 days ago. 

No alarm. No rooster crow. No cacophony of dawn song. 

Only indecipherable elevator muzak that alone he can hear. 

He stands in the line at Starbucks 

waiting to request an iced chai latte from the cute barista 

A pop jazz smoothie cover of California Uber Alles 

slurps into his brain. 

Alone he sings the lyrics. 

182 days--am I starting to forget what it tastes like? No. 

He has had insect eyeballs transplanted into his face. 

He lives in the brush strokes of Tonight at Noon, 

sees in a different light spectrum, 

and notices things only important to dragonflies, ants and beetles. 

He glides around melted rock faces 

and howling pseudanthiams where 

anthropomorphised leaves cradle florets humanized into cheeks. 

182 days without drops and torrents and oceans. 

He lives in the stench of burnt toast and burning brake and clutch. 

The bread and asbestos crumbs leave a trail 

for Hansel and Gretel to find him by moonlight. 

Indelible, inedible IYKYK trail 

for these sibling heroes to follow

to carefully cross the Pont des Arts, 

bridge weighed down and unbalanced. 

To find him and patiently relieve him of the burden of 

pebble offerings wrapped in calico fabric and wishes 

Secured with hastily knotted yarn to his handrails. 

To toss them into the moon reflected in the Seine 

to sink, to be rinsed and to absorb cool water.