Olivia Grayson

I can not tolerate her huckleberry warmth, and that
she piles on the mascara to draw attention to her eyes.

I am troubled she flosses in the living room, and spend hours
envisioning where the particles of rank debris, once expelled,
have landed and lie buttressing into the folds of the throw

pillows where I rest my head, the pads of the keyboard,
the television remote; the pages of my favorite books. I am

concerned by her off–the-record veneration of Leonard Cohen,
Leonard Cohen, Leonard Cohen; Leonard Cohen—the rubbish
flowers, tea and oranges; that infernal blue raincoat…

I am gravely annoyed by the glacial speed with which she drives,
her potlucks, boggle parties, crystal loving anointments and truth
questing via Getting into the Whirlpool!

I must thank her for lending me all that money. I will be paying her back
forever and ever in stressed syllables—sudden guilt, flowerets,
songs to slit your wrists to…

Writer’s note: this is a piece of fiction and not about my sister’s mascara habits or her adoration of Leonard Cohen.

Olivia Grayson creates prose and poetry that combine pop culture with autobiography, and recently learned she was not hallucinating, but suffering from a condition known as Alice in Wonderland Syndrome—a neurological disorder which presents as persistent optical distortions.

Her work has been published in such journals as Birds We Piled Loosely, BlazeVox, Bombay Gin, 4th and Sycamore, Talking Book, and others.

She teaches and writes in Brooklyn, NY.