My stage name is Persephone.I perform nightly for a smatteringof ill-informed Tic Tacs.Now that I’m finally tiny,I only have two fears:that someone will leavemy Whole World in the sununattended & gravity’s strapmight one day strain & break.Down here, no one desires me,but there are relatively few decisions:what flavor gum to huff,how many grains of granola.I spend my time rolling aroundwith lipsticks: matte nudes& cabernet mistakes that lookedbetter on the models. I bindmy thighs with dental floss,finally learn the aerial arts.There are bobby pins.I have to watch myself. I becomebegummed, magnetized.Things stick. Sometimes I can’tshake them. For a whole weekI was Working Shit Outwith a broken necklace that had meensnared by the hair.In my dark bordello,Bic lighters are bargesout in deep water. I tastethe tang of their flint sharpening,receding, hear the cargosloshing, the boatswain’s callat the far edge of my sanity.Sometimes keys wash up to me—all faint numbers & silver teeth.I no longer know what they open.More than once, I’ve consideredsetting the place on fire.So easy. Plenty to kindle:petrified pretzel logs, illegible receipts,& sometimes, incredibly, a tamponescaped from its casing—stringlike a fuse on a soft stick of dynamite.On hot nights, I unscrew my purseperfume & move my naked bodylike a question across the coolroller-ball. She is a Silent Oraclewho only answers in spirits& fumes: pomegranate, lilyof the valley, amber, wet fern,African violet. I have eternityto translate this Olfactory Codeinto a working escape plan.For lack of space: Please Help.This is what I’ve been reduced to.I hope someone Up There is lookingfor me. I hope my Mother isburning the goddamn crops.