A Letter From A Million Crayfish
My love said
she wanted me to eat more
and tickled my ribcage
like a xylophone. The day she left me
a million crayfish laid siege upon a restaurant
in the heart of Paris. A stranger threw an orange at me,
it turned to stone and broke my arm.
I didn’t strike him back because the orange
that became a stone that broke
my arm turned into a small bird and flew away. I hated it
though I love flying things
and I loved the crayfish though I revile crawling things.
At home, I put socks on
rather than go to the hospital.
I make foie gras out of spite.
The floor leaks water and fills
with a million crayfish who
want to give me hugs and eat me
after I cook in some butter.
They puncture my eyes with cloves
pulled from my Christmas oranges that
then become stones and then birds
flying away. They tickle my ribcage
and titter about all the good fat there.
I want to tell the stranger and all of Paris that
my love has turned into a million crayfish, stabbing
me, eating me. My speech comes out
in a series of rushed eighth notes. I am dispirited,
I have no clue what sort of bird an orange becomes.
Most weekends, bats fly
into my mouth at odd hours.
I spit them out and invite them to sit for a while.
I make them tea and dote on the winged things.
I ask them if it is true, about Dracula.
They tell me it is all true, about Dracula.
Evan Williams is an undergraduate at the University of Chicago. His work has appeared or will appear in DIAGRAM, the Rockvale Review, and Belt Publishing’s LGBTQ Anthology. He can be found on Twitter @evansquilliams.