When I wear sunglasses all day, I forget what the world actually looks like
There is a pool with an ocean view. Chlorine mixes with beachmusk and sunblock and hotdogs.
Metal grating digs into my thighs. I sit on a bench and watch a crow peck at a bag of furled tortilla
chips. I can tell by its movements that it knows the bag needs to be overturned, which means the
crow understands gravity.
Should I play snackgod? Offend the suntired families around me by making a mess to appease the
crow? Oh, how I wish someone would swoop in and pour a bag of chips over my head every time I
wanted a snack. Every time I pecked through a task.
The crow grows savvier, drags the bag across the concrete. Which means the crow understands
friction. The plastic gives a little, then a little more until the bag gapes open. Then the crow grasps
the bottom of the bag in its beak and shakes its head until chips spray forth. There’s something here
about the intelligence of crows. There’s something here about perseverance.
A murder arrives at the beckon of salt and corn. I lose my original crow in the squawking sea of
black plumage. The biggest birds pick up the biggest chips and fly to a nearby fence to crunch in
peace. The smallest birds gobble crumbs directly from the concrete. I stand to leave, which means I
understand the feast is far less entertaining than the struggle.
There are as many walls inside me as there are bones at the bottom of the sea
Not quite museum, not quite funhouse,
ㅤㅤㅤnot quite hall of mirrors. On one wall: handprints
embossed in paint. Sun lines, fate lines, heart lines
aching forward. Deeper in a chalkboard
ㅤㅤㅤcaked in equations that if solved, could explode
what we know of the universe. An aquarium.
Neon fish schooling. Starfish sucking. The patterns
ㅤㅤㅤof movement. What do they mean?
A row of televisions, bulky and stacked. Static
a fizzy discomfort. A flash of porn. Disembodied
ㅤㅤㅤgenitals fucking. Cut to a doe in a field
munching clover, then looking up. Don’t worry
I get confused in here too. To the left a window.
ㅤㅤㅤOr what you think is a window.
But is actually a chest. See the pulse of light? A heart beating.
To the right, shelves and shelves of books.
ㅤㅤㅤEvery title I’ve ever read, every text
written by someone I love, organized by cover color
into a rainbow of tomes. A backlit wall of X-rays
ㅤㅤㅤdetailing every broken heart. Each collection of fissures
a desert floor starving for rain. Now the disco-wall
adorned in tiny squares of reflective silver. Hold
ㅤㅤㅤyour ear to the mosaic and tell me what you hear.
Now the room of waterfalls and thundersounds,
slightly artificial with real petrichor. Candles detailing
ㅤㅤㅤdirt and humidity. Drop a stone, make a wish
before you hear it clack at the bottom. Next please lick
these brownie-batter walls. Never-baked, always liquid.
ㅤㅤㅤAn homage to this palace of the undone, my internal
La Sagrada Familia. Centuries of collaboration influenced
by those allowed inside to wander. Could you live here?
ㅤㅤㅤYou think so until I take you below. Internal dungeon
cast in reds and shadows. In the front standard fare—
St. Andrew’s Crosses, dog cages, a dusty bin of leather cuffs.
ㅤㅤㅤFollow me deeper. Ah no, not there. Or there.
A hall of pad-locked doors, chained and pulsing. This drama
cartoonish horror until we reach our destination.
ㅤㅤㅤYou knew it was coming, predictable and huge:
a room of mirrors. Floor, ceiling, walls. Door clicks
locked behind us. The bass begins. Strange atonal beats vibrate,
ㅤㅤㅤgrowing louder and louder. The mirrors radiate circles
like rain falling on water. You reach for me to steady yourself.
I step back. Watch as you watch yourself in terror fall,
ㅤㅤㅤpalms fog the floor, before pressing against your ears.
I watch as you watch me watching you. You shout WHY?
I smile. I’ve done it again. Charmed someone with the shiniest
ㅤㅤㅤmost interesting parts of my surface
before tearing them apart when they trusted me enough to go below.
Slater By The Sea is a flicker on the horizon. They are the 2025 winner of The Pinch’s Page Prize in Nonfiction, and their chapbook GAY POEM WITH BIRD is forthcoming from Glass Poetry. Follow them on Instagram—@slater.by.the.sea—if you enjoy funky clouds, ornamental cabbage, and vanity license plates.