Three for Needle

By Yvette Wheeler

Animal magnets

Animal magnets are on the fridge. They carry memories. They carry other people’s happiness. They carry instructions from the government. They carry surveillance apparatuses from the government. They carry on killing and eating and mating each other by the fridge’s coolant leak. They’re so mutated. Penguin lion pig bunny horse snail. They’re in the wrong order so I rearrange.

Animal magnets are on the father and the mother. They hide animal magnets in my birthday cake. They don’t like how I play with them. They throw them on the ground. Lion pig penguin horse snail bunny. They’re in the wrong order so I rearrange.

Animal magnets are on the altar. They wait patiently for an offering. They wait patiently for the sacrificial act. They wait for rot and for freedom. They wait to be doused in juices from the evaporative cooler. They wait to be evaporated and sent to heaven. Lion penguin bunny horse snail pig. They’re in the wrong order so I rearrange.

Animal magnets are on the floor. I slide them around until they’re covered in dirt. I make them kill, eat, and mate each other while I douse them in rubbing alcohol. I rub off the paint until they’re pure again. Bunny penguin snail horse elephant. They’re in the right order so I rearrange.

Pamphlets

Like cures like, which is why I sleep surrounded by accumulates. Father thinks they’ll suck out whatever’s wrong with me, since that’s what the pamphlets say. The pamphlets are printed on blue paper, since like cures like. I spend all day passing out pamphlets. I dress up like a girl, because like cures like. Father says I need to get my mom and my sister out. When he started receiving the pamphlets, he stopped calling me faggot, or anything at all. He just reads off the pamphlets, on which words are written in blue ink. Something blue is coming, which is bad. Thankfully, the pamphlets and their words are also blue, and like cures like, so there’s nothing to worry about as long as I keep passing them out. I keep my head down and extend my pamphlet- dispensing arm when the footsteps get loud. The only reason to do anything is because it’s what always happens to you.

Sticky syndrome

I have a sticky syndrome, so events get stuck to me.
The signs were there early. I walked into the classroom
with some broken glass and a bit of burnt fabric
hovering just off the surface of myskin. Ihoped
no one would notice, but of course the other children did.

And soon it became a game to see what could be stucktome. They were amazed to find
that the definition of an event was so malleable; all sorts of things would stick.
Mycocoon of events became larger than the elementary school’s doorway,
andIcouldno longer make it through.

I have a stickysyndrome, so my parents decided to homeschoolme. Iwasplaced inside a
bubble so even events couldn’t get in. They walked intomybedroom with some
birthdaycake and a bit of burningcandle and set it just off the surface of my skin. The
doctor who diagnosedmeforgot to inform them that events can even come from inside.
Andsoon mybubble filledup withstuff andthings whichhappened deepinside myself.

Ihaveastickysyndrome,soeventsgetstucktome.Thesignswerethereearly.Wewalkedintoth
eworldwithourdiagnosishoveringjustoffthecircusofyourskin.AndsoonIcan’tdescernwha
t’sjuststickingfromwhatwasreallyalwaysme.