frayed feathers like foam off charred
dishes plastic crunching in the stomach
flat in the rubble of stone and sprouting green
bottlecaps in bird,
sans soap bottles, sans lipstick tube, sans body
caps in Kandinsky
vibrant
scattered
rolling
the advent of RCA CT-100
monochrome no longer
forbidden fruit of aquarium pebbles
I too bite off more than I can chew
and often end up splayed in the sand
hoping the wreckage is beautiful
that it at least resembles
flight
Ellie Mota is a writer and chatterbox from Southern Ontario finding her words, her footing, and her BA in Montreal. Catch her dancing in the grocery store and going uncharacteristically silent to eavesdrop on conversations for writing inspiration. Her creative nonfiction has appeared in yolk, Ahoy, and forthcoming in Squid literary.