At poolside we enjoy the array of pastel rectangles and ellipses representing “picnic.” I sense your trouble and draw close. Later, in my kitchen, over plates of beige squares, our tiny forks wave in unison. You ask, When everyone I love has betrayed me, how can I go on? Well, dear, I can tell you how. And so I do. And while I am all kind concern, do not misunderstand — this universe bends for me, as when that poor Aldo, my stalker, careened off a bluff to his cautionary death (not shown). He wouldn’t learn. I feel you can learn. So it’s disappointing to see you at the next little get-together waving a wine bottle, shouting Save yourselves, don’t believe the lies! Advice is my department, dear. We are so nearly perfect. The sky matches my eyes so well there is no need for weather.
MARTHA MCCOLLOUGH is a writer and video artist living in Chelsea, Massachusetts. She has an MFA in painting from Pratt Institute. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Baffler, Cream City Review, Crab Creek Review, and Salamander, among others. Her videopoems have appeared in Triquarterly, Datableed, and Atticus Review.