With a red bucket stuck on my head, I don’t leave the house. Sneezes and violently shaking my head do not loosen its hold—at least there’s something still attached/attracted to me. With this trap clinging to my fragile neck, I have an excuse as to why I’m not working on the book, why I’m not visiting anyone. The best consequence: I can’t play games. I once had a dozen white marbles, and each hungry hungry hippo ate them up. I won’t share the names of the hippos—no one wants to be called a hippo. She harasses me with text messages, emails, and Facebook comments, and demands I do this, do that, and she eats my life away, and won’t I have lunch with her again. No one told me that we don’t get any more marbles. No one told me this was a game. I don’t like to answer questions and I can no longer read or hear them. Does it taste like plastic and vomit in here?
Hungry Hungry Hippos
Cat Dixon (she/her) is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet's Haven, 2019). Work forthcoming from Sledgehammer Lit and Whale Road Review. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review. Website: catdix.com Twitter: @DixonCat