Michelle Chen
Michelle Chen

In a dream,
I watched
my skin burst into
an efflorescence of turgid pearls,
cinched and pouting all over me.

Some droplets as
big as marbles,
others reluctant tears,
quivering with surface tension.
Ripe enough to squeeze.

The little bulbs stretched and oozed,
busted open the webs
between my fingers.

And out rolled
the incandescent mercury
of memory.

Heavy, trembling.
Tumbling across the floor
in a rhythmic cascade.

Bouncing and clinging to
one another,
like celestial bodies at play.

The little craters
they leave behind
begin to scar over.

And the magnetic jive
dancing out of me
pools into puddles of
slick defiance,
joining some preordained orbit
beyond my magnetic field.

As the subsurface
quicksilver punched its way out,
it left me
half relieved, half terrified

of the spirit
worming away,
atomizing me in a flurry of
spontaneous generation.