Fully commit to the gaudy destruction, to the blue earred rabbit, to the gold locket tattooed to your throat. Stroke the double-headed fawn, brush clean its gold incisors, feed it handfuls of little girl braids. Add marshmellows to the pink plastic carriage drawn by white mice. Tie them all high up in the oak tree with your red ribbons, and catch the honeyed rain of their tears in square chrome buckets. Call the mailman “daddy” and give him kisses that last as dark smudges across his wrists.
Play simple tunes on the recorder as you sit under your cone cap, with its tall silver peak. The nurse will see you now. The nurse is your mother or god. The nurse has an angel's wing tattooed over one eye. The nurse hands you rubies and sapphires, and tells you not to bite down when you swallow. The nurse has no teeth, and is missing a foot. After you have swallowed, she will sing to you about the war, about the giant horses and aardvarks in the king's sea, while the high ceiling rotates, and the stains on her gown become maps.