Chroma One, etc.
By
Pixie Bruner
Chroma One
Jaundice, Van Gogh’s room, those sunflowers,
the dandelion gnawing at the lawn,
its lion teeth tearing at my brain,
butterflies, all mustard,
warm blonde hair plaited at cookouts
being gnawed at by grilled corn
on the cob with teeth
“buttery goodness” such badness
Baby brothers tonka truck,
grandmothers kitchen,
the ducks, the Easter eggs,
The pencil on the desk
was a stake to the heart.
The ribbons,
the three birthday monstrous
eye burning-out
candles of
the seventh cake-
I burned the house
to the ground,
razed my family with
fire to escape my
xanthophobia
-fear and repulsion of the color yellow
now only smooth white walls,
smooth white clean,
never to discolor,
to yellow, to age.
Arachibutyrophobia
The thick paste obstructs my airway.
I will swallow and swallow and swallow.
It is a clog, adhering to my esophagus.
It does not go down. It spreads,
dense and honeyed, shards of sharp crushed edges.
I cannot breathe through a semi-solid blob
blocking my airway, coating my uvula.
Saliva cannot dilute, I clear my throat.
It is childhood paste I cannot spit out,
it clings, expands, as I struggle more for air.
Coughing, swallowing, scraping my palate,
where it is trapped like a grease clog.
It hangs like a stalactite from my soft palate.
I am panicking at my impending death.
Choking hazard lights flash in my eyes,
No oxygen, those lights will dim in minutes.
I am drowning at the kitchen sink,
standing over it, hacking, gagging, hacking
like a cat with an unctuous glued hairball
stuck in the back of my mouth,
spreading down my throat slowly like
the thick mucus of cystic fibrosis.
Mortaring shut my mouth with pale tar,
the lashing of strawberry jam on enriched
soft white mushy loaf bagged bread,
perfectly able to be rolled into a doughball
easy and round enough to fill an entire larynx.
A lethal error, a bite too large.
Maybe a sudden case of anaphylaxis onset.
It was fated to be how I die — asphyxiation.
Terror of suffocation - Arachibutyrophobia,
peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Koumpounophobia
They are slick and they are round
they are so round and all those little holes-Koumpounophobia.
The eyes of ragdolls, black discs-
lifeless, all-Iris, like scream contacts-Koumpounophobia.
They rattle in the jar like a maraca
The jar drops and they lie on the floor studded with glass-Koumpounophobia.
The Pearlies of London,
their suits and caps with countless iridescent eyes-Koumpounophobia.
The back of a wedding gown,
the ornate row on spine, containment requiring assistance- Koumpounophobia.
Penetration, sleeking, slip-through, hidden under plackets,
Securing security secured only by easy unraveled thread-Koumpounophobia.
Replacement, stitches done in patterns, thimbles
Matching the many other eyes on the jacket- Koumpounophobia
Covered, matched, same same sameness
Small countless pain points for gnarled rheumatic hands- Koumpounophobia.
Ancient, servants, giant latch hooks for independent dressing
Slipped discs corralled by steel tool noose -Koumpounophobia.
Running in terror when they said she was beautiful,
such a beautiful face, a perfect button nose- Koumpounophobia
Pixie Bruner (SFPA/DWS) is a writer, editor, and cancer survivor. She lives in Atlanta, GA, with her doppelgänger and deranged cats. Her Elgin-nominated poetry book The Body As Haunted was published in 2024. (Authortunities Press). Her words are in from Space & Time Magazine, Amazing Stories, Weird Fiction Quarterly, Abyss & Apex, Strange Horizons, Spectral Realms, and many more. She wrote for White Wolf Gaming Studio. Werespiders ruining LARPs were are her fault. 2025 Rhysling Award Chair Survivor. 2025 Kay Snow Prize Winner
By
Pixie Bruner
Chroma One
Jaundice, Van Gogh’s room, those sunflowers,
the dandelion gnawing at the lawn,
its lion teeth tearing at my brain,
butterflies, all mustard,
warm blonde hair plaited at cookouts
being gnawed at by grilled corn
on the cob with teeth
“buttery goodness” such badness
Baby brothers tonka truck,
grandmothers kitchen,
the ducks, the Easter eggs,
The pencil on the desk
was a stake to the heart.
The ribbons,
the three birthday monstrous
eye burning-out
candles of
the seventh cake-
I burned the house
to the ground,
razed my family with
fire to escape my
xanthophobia
-fear and repulsion of the color yellow
now only smooth white walls,
smooth white clean,
never to discolor,
to yellow, to age.
Arachibutyrophobia
The thick paste obstructs my airway.
I will swallow and swallow and swallow.
It is a clog, adhering to my esophagus.
It does not go down. It spreads,
dense and honeyed, shards of sharp crushed edges.
I cannot breathe through a semi-solid blob
blocking my airway, coating my uvula.
Saliva cannot dilute, I clear my throat.
It is childhood paste I cannot spit out,
it clings, expands, as I struggle more for air.
Coughing, swallowing, scraping my palate,
where it is trapped like a grease clog.
It hangs like a stalactite from my soft palate.
I am panicking at my impending death.
Choking hazard lights flash in my eyes,
No oxygen, those lights will dim in minutes.
I am drowning at the kitchen sink,
standing over it, hacking, gagging, hacking
like a cat with an unctuous glued hairball
stuck in the back of my mouth,
spreading down my throat slowly like
the thick mucus of cystic fibrosis.
Mortaring shut my mouth with pale tar,
the lashing of strawberry jam on enriched
soft white mushy loaf bagged bread,
perfectly able to be rolled into a doughball
easy and round enough to fill an entire larynx.
A lethal error, a bite too large.
Maybe a sudden case of anaphylaxis onset.
It was fated to be how I die — asphyxiation.
Terror of suffocation - Arachibutyrophobia,
peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Koumpounophobia
They are slick and they are round
they are so round and all those little holes-Koumpounophobia.
The eyes of ragdolls, black discs-
lifeless, all-Iris, like scream contacts-Koumpounophobia.
They rattle in the jar like a maraca
The jar drops and they lie on the floor studded with glass-Koumpounophobia.
The Pearlies of London,
their suits and caps with countless iridescent eyes-Koumpounophobia.
The back of a wedding gown,
the ornate row on spine, containment requiring assistance- Koumpounophobia.
Penetration, sleeking, slip-through, hidden under plackets,
Securing security secured only by easy unraveled thread-Koumpounophobia.
Replacement, stitches done in patterns, thimbles
Matching the many other eyes on the jacket- Koumpounophobia
Covered, matched, same same sameness
Small countless pain points for gnarled rheumatic hands- Koumpounophobia.
Ancient, servants, giant latch hooks for independent dressing
Slipped discs corralled by steel tool noose -Koumpounophobia.
Running in terror when they said she was beautiful,
such a beautiful face, a perfect button nose- Koumpounophobia
Pixie Bruner (SFPA/DWS) is a writer, editor, and cancer survivor. She lives in Atlanta, GA, with her doppelgänger and deranged cats. Her Elgin-nominated poetry book The Body As Haunted was published in 2024. (Authortunities Press). Her words are in from Space & Time Magazine, Amazing Stories, Weird Fiction Quarterly, Abyss & Apex, Strange Horizons, Spectral Realms, and many more. She wrote for White Wolf Gaming Studio. Werespiders ruining LARPs were are her fault. 2025 Rhysling Award Chair Survivor. 2025 Kay Snow Prize Winner
