I met Jamie Foxx in an elevator last week; he loved my polka-dot pants. Finally feeling myself, a straight-up goofball treading water in the roiling sea. I have literally everything I need. Grocery Outlet always has the good probiotic sodas these days. I own fourteen baseball hats. There is magic in taking a little boat to work. Strong hands guide me through the doors as I try not to trip on seagull-picked-over mussel shell scraps. They tie the ferry to the dock with a fat golden rope, just like in olden times. The one I take is called Hydrus. A small constellation in the deep Southern sky. Male water snake, as opposed to Hydra, the female. I can’t remember if I slapped my mother or she slapped me, but it doesn’t really matter; the memory feels the same. Pain inflicted, followed by forgiveness. The musty smell of crumbling rosebuds in an old-ass potpourri bowl. So passé. Pas de bourrée. Now that we live on the third floor, my cat has nothing to ekekek at but still she stares out the window, hoping. I teach a masterclass for my parents on identifying AI but I still get the videos of fifty round British Shorthairs all romping my way through neon tulip fields, psychedelic sea slugs whose bodies bloom with daisies. Who am I to crush joy?

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Polly is a writer and editor based in Alameda, CA. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in One Art, Wildscape Literary Journal, MEMEZINE, Pictura, Catamaran Literary Reader, Jelly Squid, and others. She is the Poetry Editor at Nulla, a multimedia journal based in San Francisco, and completed a residency at Ou Gallery on Vancouver Island in early 2026. Polly holds an MFA in Poetry from California College of the Arts.