In the moon’s shadow, find the mortar and pestle, the rabbit getaway. The house is the poison. Exhale the air. Stop drinking. Leave. Some say silly. No elixir of life here. Some say we’re more pest than pet, more cake than rice, more dust than vain. Some say pet-peeve. Others stewed. Some call us dog, hair of the dog, rude. Grab heels. Roll on crown. Feel the weight. Follow the flow of twist, lunge, plank, then nap on the floor like a rock. They gave us a name, invented us.
They want us to throw ourselves into the fire. Run.
— Laura Madeline Wiseman
