Apple skins between my toes, smushed

into the carpet. Soft like a tongue, red

like a leftover drop of blood

after the injury is done. Pieces scattered

around from where he chewed them up

and spit them back out. In a crowd

he’s too short to know who’s who

by face, so he checks the space above

the knees for Dad’s coiled hair, everywhere

a cityscape between those tall legs. They go

getting longer until they carry away

a man, a thing

I’ve created, a manifold universe that breathes

and turns its head back and forth

in its sleep. He dreams

of a train screaming by, a fan blade

going too fast to catch it

with his eye, a surface boiling

in a water pot, the inching up

of a vine. It’s slow growth, accumulating smoke,

but have you ever seen how fast

smoke goes streaming out your car window?

Jessica Wirt is a writer from Lexington, South Carolina. She spends her time enjoying life with her family and raising her kids to follow the Lord. She loves exploring the beauty and complexity of everyday life. She is previously unpublished.