POP

Someone's blowing soap bubbles
inside my chest.
Perfect circles slip
upwards
bouncing, glistening, populating,
multiplying,
pushing against one another,
until a shiny bubble bursts
against the flesh wall.

Stuck
like suits stuffed in an elevator
with no floor to press.

Bubbles turn into a slick substance
coating bones;
a rainbow of light
transforms into overflowing washing liquid,
foaming suds push outwards
harvested and grown from dreams
left behind,
waiting,
caught.