In a plastic bag of jell-o with nine other girls.
Once the rods in my eyes adjust to the gradations of green,
I regret it.
Things are easier when I couldn't see.
Those choices are no longer available.
I inhale jell-o, trusting I will get better at this,
assuming the other nine girls have been here longer
and they too struggled at first.
I interrupt the writhing movements
of girl J, who looks like she's trying to appear
to be having a good time.
I asked to no one in particular if this jell-o is safe to eat.
No one answers.
The jell-o is more muscular than I recall.
Have my own muscles atrophied so much as
to create this perception, or is it
the fault of this minimal gravity
state of being suspended in jell-o,
or were they having a drought?
No one answers.
Did I ever manage to ask?
I see a sequence of cubes that might
function as a staircase leading me up and out of this place.
But it's not that I wanted to leave.
If only I could find girl D, we could sell this thing
all of us contained as a work of art
and make a jello ton of money.
Or if I could find girl H and get a hold of a camera
and document ourselves releasing emotions into gelatinous sugar.
Then, smuggle the footage out of the bag.
The rescue crew will know what to bring when
they decide to come fetch us.
I take a deep jello breath and start to shout,
has anybody seen-- but then, I remember
that I'm hoping to avoid girl E who's likely to blame
this whole situation on me.
Although the exact hue cannot be ascertained until they pull us
one by one out of the green jell-o,
I do suspect that my skin is turning green.
Some girls are darker, some lighter.
Their faces, their feet, all of their skin is changing color
and I vaguely hope that I might come out
of this a little sweeter.
Meal preparation or science project?
I bet we are not even going to make the evening news.