I wear a dress made out of water. It flows off me

in mirrored layers and I find myself a lake.

 

Translucent water lilies float in the blurred space

between me and water, swatch of dark blue

 

reflects sky. Goldfish have left their fishbowls

to be here, to fly circles around my water skirt.

 

They burst into spark trails and re-form when it rains.

I string up paper lanterns folded from orange and red leaves,

 

the same colour as the fish that have mastered the sky.

A dress made out of water, a crown just a halo of fish sparks,

 

flute carved from lotus wood whistles a dance tune.

Water lilies open their arms to release frogs onto my dress.

 

Tadpoles tickle their way up my legs and find warmth

in the hot spring of my stomach. This is how I learn water

 

animals hide flesh, that goldfish

make wishes come true if you say please

 

enough times, that the price I pay is horns growing out

of my hair. I wish reflections would stop

 

forever so I can stop seeing my face when I look down

at my body and that water lilies would sprout

 

on my skirtfalls. The frogs hop up with flowers

but these are made from tree rot, and goldfish

 

haven’t learned to undo wishes yet.

 

​