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Glossies Forrest Roth

She recalls self-portraiture, signing the table’s underside in black crayon as a child with another, lovelorn regret: hidden consequences prior to hired help levitating her body while they titter in outlandish brogues, admire how accessible the refectory shower is. Sans train, her silken whiteness clings about too tight, shapes her firm aureoles to pucker at attention. We are staring, very serious. Certain queasy heaves rush one youth holding his divan pillow, who motions to an ice water pail the matron is preparing, and dunks his head. We hear molars crunch wood chips (a libidinal control the priest had distributed). Rose petals spill out of his pockets.

Exactly how does a pond make us tranquil—unless preservatives in the marigold arrangement will steel a guest or three? But they are already an incoherent mumble about histories of thrilling arrivals in oft-anointed tongues. It orchestrates their well-behaved stupor, these sniffles and snucks which reach deafening crescendoes, unaware she is sunlit, propping her raccoon eyes against the gazebo in full bloom.

With her deepest blessings we should stay plaintive for a few hours more. On the mountainside awaits a reception housing red roast beef in the prime of its life, swimming in silvery au jus that mirrors additional trappings.