Fourth Dimension Fairytale

at all times i am dying. after all,

we could not have seen the guillotine.
we could not have seen the way the road

gorged itself on unvigilant passerby
& the vigilantes, too. the sky seemed

a stranger to me. i could not speak

for you as i once had; i could not
peel back the skin of an orange

without my hands

shaking like tin cans. once, a thousand
years ago, we filled them with uncooked

grains of rice & fallen teeth. once

i was taught to dance, or maybe i learned,
but never both. at any rate my arms

fell off. so i shook them instead &

all the trinkets inside shattered together,
all the blood crystallizing with the glass

i had ingested—truly it was beautiful.

you & i, we started young;
we were early birds, we set out

even before the dawn

could bleed out across the sky.
& though we were eaten alive

it was fine; at all times we are dying

& so know that we will meet again,
either alive or a little beyond.

Originally published in Indigo Literary Journal

Divyasri Krishnan is a writer from Massachusetts. Her work has been published in Muzzle Magazine, Hobart Pulp, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and others. She is a Best of the Net finalist and reads for the Adroit Journal.