The alligator that catches pennies in her mouth uses them to appease the caravans of ants collecting copper in her belly. Over the years, they’ve tunneled into the rubber and vinyl that house her electric bones. We visit her once the crowds settle under the sparkling ceiling of Suburban Jungle. They pray for rain. We toss her a penny for a wish – what gift will the artificial bayou grant us? Maybe the mud that might glue us together, if our penny stays lucky.

Her pointed
scales trap Lincoln’s face right side
up between her brows.

I.Observation

I’m sorry I called you fat,
she says over the aluminum
of the bathroom stall.
My mom’s a stripper
and she smokes weed.
I have a lot going on.

You’ll forgive her,
because you’re ten.

From that point forward,
though, you’re aware.

II.Hypothesis

Don’t you want an orange?
She holds the fruit up
as you uncurl strands
of fat-free string cheese.
It’s healthy.

You reply head down,
as you’re more than occupied
by how much your thighs
spill over the acrylic seat.

III.Experiment

Don’t you feel tiny
in your wedding dress?
she says, as you show her
the puffy lace number,
the one that covers
your chunky back.

Your body isn’t built
to fit in metal arena seats
that leave arm rest bruises.

IV.Conclusion

Carnival mirrors
don’t make you giggle.