Rosemarie Dombrowski
	Sunken There's a blip inside my chest, almost nausea, and I'm thinking of you at nine but also the snow-globe that after years of repeated agitation has begun to grow barnacles made of un-snow that make it look like a sunken ship even though it's really only a sleigh and two reindeer. Then, blip, there you are: pulling on the reigns that connect to the bit in my mouth, chafing the corners of my lips as I prance along in the animal pelt that disguises this human psyche, remembers watching this scene but not being trapped inside of it, spherical and clear. By ten p.m. it's like a wave, and the nausea of agitation whips me into reality until I'm plunging into the sunken ship, asphyxiating in her abdominal cavity (but only you could know what I mean).