"Water" in an alphabet book

by Caroline Cai

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅🏰 this piece is part of PRINCESS, our second digital collection of works. PRINCESS responds to the problematic of modern princessdom through pieces by theorists, writers, and artists. 🏰⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

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The rain feels wetter because you called it “torrential”

over the phone burning holes into my pillowcase, more

tear drop shaped, all wisp and bulb, and blue not clear,

like “Water” in an alphabet book, except “W” actually

begins with a “D” as in Delta, which begins again with

rain. And if you say “delta” twenty times fast, your tongue

might cluck like a chicken, except no chicken has ever

said the word “cluck”, though I’m sure you could make

one declare it as a matter of fact.

The Yellow Number Five dyed pickle jar liquid glows

incandescently because you called it “chartreuse”, like

liqueur on the mouth of a princess, so I stare into the jar

deep spotlight or jar wide glow stick or jar round swamp

until I can trace a soft meniscus as I lay down in a soft

depression on the side of my bed closer to your dropped

pin, emanating several states over, and dream of

“chartreuse”, only the word and not the color, reflected in

every window of an arrival bound airplane stretching

over an endless rainbow.

The grass feels cleaner because you called it a “blade”,

more shard like and individuated, sprouting over a time

lapse, merging faster towards a tip, like a halo shrouded

weapon in a video game, beckoning to “PILLAGE

CORPSE”, so I toggle my thumb to pillage, then wander

off a cliff and respawn on a wide field, except there’s no

grass, only wood chips, so I turn to you then look back,

now there’s only poker chips, purple for $500, so you

harness your wingspan to shove them all into a center

pile, gaze steady for miles.

The dictionary finally feels like a prop with the pages

glued together, good as a brick or a projectile, it can

build a house or break my bones but can’t tell me what

anything is, or if you’ll disappear into a pile of clothes. So

I chuck it into the neighbor’s yard and stalk a fence crack

shaped beam projecting a silent slapstick onto my retina,

starring us, and watch as you dart your eyes, flail your

arms, slyly tiptoe — Blinded, I shut my eyes to be left

with flashes of your afterimage, lodged behind my lids

like a smudge on an X-ray, reflecting colors I cannot

name.

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My name is Caroline Cai and I am a writer from Los Angeles, California. I have forthcoming pieces in Cursor and Pilot magazine. 
@clairolime