• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 07


Not till the 4th visit to the hypnotherapist
did Quetzalcoatl's feathered head push
past my tonsils and whisper. My lips closed
but the echo rose from my nostrils.

That snake! I thought. That puppeteer,
the way he hides in the folds of my flesh.
Perhaps this time his neck will find the guillo-
tine of my teeth. The therapist didn’t blink.

History, she said
becomes mythology to live.

This was to be our last session so I un-
locked my jaw and asked no questions.
We climbed in mounting its column and slid
its hide past the red light of my backlit eyelids.
Our clothes rank now with the smell of wet dog.

Deeper! Commanded the thing gyrating,
its face contorting like a bear with its back to
the bark of a sitka.

Next, darkness in the space behind the sinus.
Then a flicker of phosphenes, faceless
bodies swimming as if tadpoles in the ruins
of a flooded quarry. The air loaded with
the thrum and gurgle of purple machinery.

Theatre! Nothing to see here. It bellowed.



We fell as it uncoiled itself. To the
oesophagus an opera house, forgotten
and cavernous. Stalactites dripping tar-
like from the rafters to an ink-thick pool.
Its tail thrashing in the mire to usher
us through.

We jumped and sank. Lungfuls of hot,
tasteless liquid until daylight. A living room
and I’m sitting on the knee of my mother,
bald head drunk on new born shoulders
as the door clicks to a silhouette,
wild and urgent…

On the cycle home I was lighter. Strange
as I could still feel the weight, the shape
of him braiding my spine to my coccyx.