by Meredith Maltby

Published in Issue No. 212 ~ January, 2015

At a party getting to know all the cute

space time continuums,

I wasn’t spiraling, just getting my name

out there, testing the waters

in bodies not my own.


A cup was full in one realm

and empty in another.


It was fun to watch the liquid timeline

stretch across the room.

I tried to catch it halfway, lapped up

some solitary soda between dimensions.


Everyone was a blob.

Their drinks were grey, and also blobs.


One blob was so fragmentary,

I couldn’t dance with it.


There was no food, just purple

stream lights, black holes I couldn’t

get accustomed to,

Every manner of decoration—

Earth, sky,

and things I had no words for.


I liked the sky best

and decided to pet it:
Silky, and soft.


It’s linguistic kissing,

one blob was explaining

to another, something about

implosives, ejectives,

breath variation.


A blob slyly inserted a Chinese finger trap

onto my index finger and joined it

with the space where its finger

might have been.


I don’t know where it got the toy.

The blob must have thought I’d like it.

The blob told me I was a lovely

compilation of sound, skin,

and matter,

Was mostly interested in

the digestive system.


Frankly, I don’t want to blow

into mouths, it explained.
I suppose I looked grateful,

Some other way to reach oblivion.


Twenty-year-old humans are boring,

I said, wrapping nova necklaces

of comet tails around my neck, instantly

eating my words.


That’s just your own

self-imposed universe,

the blob curtailed, chomping

my leftover quotations

into obliteration.

To illustrate, it created new versions

of time and space

in midair, where events drove forward

when they wanted to,

Create a new world, make it so.


Create a world.

I started in my mind.


I tried to zap purple lights

into pink, switch language

to light:
None of it worked.


I didn’t have the same powers

that the blob did.

Not like that, it cautioned.


It pulled horoscopes out of my mouth

so I’d forget about futures, and left.

It was a sweet parting

with an important friend.



I could only control

my own weight in the world.

Destinies aren’t divinity.


I skirted around the side table

just as one of its legs

vaporized; re-appearing

all propped up in the corner

like some abandoned peg leg.


Things were getting weird.

Blobs were, became, remained,



Every blob shuffled to a secret rhythm

only they knew about.


I wished they’d turn up the music,

Drown out my feet and hands,

Lilt my skin in space serrated, a cut

I’d made through time
I would, or would not, return to.

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Meredith Maltby is from Glen Ellyn, Illinois and attends Tulane University. She studies English and Linguistics, and is on the Tulane women's tennis team. She is the poetry editor for the Tulane Review and likes pancakes without syrup.