It took seven days for the changes to churn. Thirst brought a taste of metal and

the elevated feeling of climbing water towers. Sheep huddled in your joints,

muffled the clicking, and your scars smoothed over like re-paved roads. You

gave up coffee for rush hour and slept like an abandoned coalmine under the

layers of a whole population at rest. Parades were better than sex. But during the

heaviest hour, the wax moths and wet lawns, you’d cry out in runaways,

nightgowns and backpacks skirting around your corners. Graffiti brought color in

the beginning until the tarter came, and infidelities stacked up above your ears in

migraine patterns. You lost your hair with the geese. It’s too much you

whispered, shoplifting castor oil and waiting for an evacuation that never came.

You tried roller coasters and holding your breath upside down to no avail. On the

last Friday of the month you took fire to your house, drank the smoke like a

gallon of fresh air until you felt the whole hive of them calm. You apologized

with singed lips and asked them to leave. They packed quietly in the night. You