Where new writing finds its voice

The Party

Matt Bryden

The red fox told me not to wear green –
peacock coats are out, with vermillion tails –

a pink-tinted drinking straw pushed through a pursed lid,
a root beer in his hand, he was wearing purple stilettos

with an arm bandaged from an incident with a blender.
Now, though, he was completely in charge,

a kiss me quick I’m a sailor hat perched between his ears
his orange tail

slung so low, sprung up in a white flourish.
We all admired that. Come, he said to me, 

pulling me into a confidence – there was caffeine on his breath –
allow yourself an indiscretion just this once.

My skin rose to his feral touch.
I needed to retch.