If you asked,
by Julia Maria Ortiz
Photograph credits: "busy bee" by Vanessa Maki
If you asked,
my dear, I would
eat the
tops
of tulips
whole,
fit one into
my mouth and snip
with my teeth.
I would lick
clean
the pollen
from the center,
feel the skin- soft,
silk - soft
petals
spreading layers
over my smile.
When I grin at you,
my mouth would be
yellows and reds and oranges.
And then I would chomp
the brightness to bits. If
you asked, that is.
I would much rather
pluck
them like hairs from a
head,
deliver them
to your table,
watch your eyes fill
with colors, watch
them die with
the greenery.
Is it morbid?
No, just slower.
sleep-talking
by Julia Maria Ortiz
Photograph credits: "found on the shore" by Vanessa Maki
sleep-talking
i think of a time - many forgotten calendars from now - when my skin is see-through paper and you laugh that i am a jellyfish. i will tease you about wrinkles you don’t have. and when i’m so feeble that my teeth fall out of my head i will wrap them in cloth and hand them back to you. i don’t know if you still want them but no one else should have them. am i making sense or making up stories again? there isn’t much difference anymore. now that dream are long as days. would you still let me tangle in bed beside you if i were nothing but hair, clothes, and ash? i cross my fingers and roll over.
Julia Maria Ortiz
Julia Maria Ortiz is a writer and artist attending Smith College. Her work has been published in Firefly Magazine and she acts as co-editor of Luminous Press. She enjoys fairy tales, warm cocoa and photography