Rainbows at the Ends of my Worlds

Written by Anne Marie Ward


Angel, his name for a little pearly iridescent bong with lime trim, has rainbows of various light shiny pinks, purples, greens, yellows that ripple across her surface like an oil slick on wet blacktop as she’s passed over by my dear, dear friend’s extended arm–through smoke and slipping light–as my dear friend seems surprisingly-incredibly distressed when I casually blurt in the midst of this bong exchange that I’m considering fleeing to Moldova to learn Romanian and Russian on the government’s white-savior-obsessed dime and avoid death behind a double-monitored desk but, suppose, also ultimately implicitly avoid some life with those who love me because oh does it hurt so deeply to care for us mortals, as he hands her casually to me, unafraid I will shatter her with an unsteady grip too tight, intrusive ball lollipop cracking between molars flashes on the project screen of my closed eyelids, as surely all this he knows with dropped mouth and wide eyes and brows furrowed,


Recovered Memory From Early Development: As the orange sun sets in the evenings and rises in the mornings, for certain moments the light angles through the faux-crystal chandelier of our foyer and hits the wall behind the steps between the slots of the banister, and creates a fish-shaped rainbow. Watch on the fifth step up above the landing, little one, a little lifetime ago of a particular forgotten little rainbow, a trick of the light that you adored and tried to grasp on the wall, tracing ethereal fins, fleeting scales, though you knew to be futile, after all, suddenly remembering from your childhood home.


Sticky Sweet Sickly rainbow of a sleepless night, greeny-yellowy-bluey tie-dye splotches dilating and constricting behind dark lids, forever, forever, forever, forever, for hour after hour after ever after, in the purple dark that leads to purple circles under red eyes that snap open to reveal the inverse splotches, yellow, red, and white moving like a kaleidoscope screensaver in the absence.


Angry, angry, angry at Port Authority at quitting time on a Friday before a long weekend in long lines that collide into each other, entangling. Pigeon with oil-spill rainbows glinting in the curve of her neck struts and rocks on by like fucking audacity incarnate.