the body’s in the back. we order
short fries, small fork, an extra credit card
machine. we are a machine. the body’s now our front-
seat driver, driving backward into—
foreword: we’d like an extra-lake large body
of water. whatever floats your boat or
sinks it. we are sinking. the body’s scratching
lotto tickets on the dash—
bored. we are bored. the body wants an order
change me, I like being told please
tell me your shoe size, ring size, dress size
us up, baby, we’re unafraid of bending
straws to tickle our hinges, unhinge
our ball joints, ball-join, con-join—
us in the back. the body’s
in the back, thank you, she rises, rising
water’s rising. we told you we can’t control
the radio. Enjoy 60 minutes of ad-free—
us from this machinement, we meant
careenment, endrownment, confine—
meant the door. the body’s
going for the door—
jam on the side, yes, great to spread
our grease us up, yeah. order’s ready
to go under—
where do you want us to stand?
Rachel Lachmansingh is a Guyanese-Canadian writer from Toronto. She is currently pursuing her degree in creative writing. Her work has appeared in Minola Review, Grain Magazine, The Malahat Review, Augur Magazine, and elsewhere. @rachellwrites on Twitter.