A girl on the plane says, I was stuck
with all these crazy people and I was
normal. Incredibly, I say, Same same.
It was not I who pulled madness
from the water. My arms are my own.
But everything I’m saying is true:
nothing real has changed. These
whiskers, these black eyes were there all along—
what am I becoming, I say, and the seal
sunning in the pouch of my lip says I cannot
see you well enough to know. In dark,
everything is true and incredible. The dog
has many legs, like a Cambrian sea-
thing. The huge rabbits under the blue car
sit up and call my name, then bolt.
Nameless neighbor calls my name
with his drums, marching in the backyard
of my ear. Me, I’m just a little sick—
not enough to show it. Afraid I will lose
my thumbprint. I fill the kitchen
with trees and I fill the trees with
more trees. I walk until I learn to use
my feet, walk into the next day
of my life. Then lose my feet.
The tail of my body slaps the sea’s smug
cheek. My brain is my aunt in Tennessee
who calls me to tell me how to survive
a tornado. I’m already in the closet, and
by the time we hang up, the fury
has calmed without touching down. 
Madness is madness. Show your teeth.
Under me, the empty chair spins
itself dizzy. Slippery with language.
I said let me get a better grasp.
I said I can talk more when I land.

Molly Williams (they/them) is a recent graduate from the MFA program at the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, TX. Their work has appeared in No Contact, NECTAR Poetry, and Typehouse.