In film, the sound of biting into 
an apple is created by ripping apart 
duct tape to create a realistic sound. 

Molly sends me a video of an onion
which, when cut into with a large knife, 
is revealed to be a cake. Then she sends 

videos of a shoe, a frog, a pair of 
jeans, a plant, a hairbrush—all pierced 
with a knife, all revealed to be cakes.

It’s Halloween. Outside, a hot dog just 
picked up a cat. Audrey Hepburn is walking 
arm in arm with a soldier in a tricorn hat, 

and it begins to rain. (The sound 
of rain in film is made by frying 
bacon or sprinkling rice onto a pan.)

A woman in a video is about to peel off 
a hundred layers of makeup, she says. 
“God,” Greg texted with the video, horrified, 

“I thought someone was going to cut 
into her, and she was going to be a cake.” 
Then I see a video of twins—one holds 

a knife to the other’s cheek, and when 
she slices, there is a soft, spongey 
inside, with green icing. 

There was something I said
(The sound of a gun cocking is made 
by just opening a briefcase latch)

a long time ago that I didn’t mean 
to say (The sound of a heartbeat 
is made by just rustling a t-shirt.) 

and now watching the causal sequence from 
having said it (the sound of removing a bullet 
from a wound is made with a tomato)

is like watching birds mistake the lights 
of a stadium for the sun; they circled and circled 
the lights until they dropped from exhaustion.

(The sound of a breaking window 
is made with glass on chimes.)
The realistic cake trend turns into a game 

show called Is It Cake? Two cakes look like 
a painting of Mona Lisa, one is not a cake. 
The game show host walks up to a toilet, 

and swings an axe into a real toilet. They guessed 
wrong. Some people save lives, says one baker. 
I make cakes that look like other things. 

A pop art comic couple are talking 
on cell phones. A whole baseball team 
is trailed by a Batman. A bird has taken off 

his beak to smoke a cigarette. (The sound 
of a cigarette inhale is made with saran wrap.)
I’m tired, and I want to go home,

but I already am home. I’m already in
costume, my best disguise—someone
who needs nothing. It’s unmistakable.

I go to a party and hear people dressed 
in costumes from different eras and lives 
talking about how they wish they’d been alive 

at another time—in the 1920s, in other centuries
(The sound of a moving train is made 
by just shaking a box of mac and cheese)

and I want to say to them that they can feel 
alone anywhere in any era 
(Kissing sounds are made by just 

one person kissing their own hand.)
I want to say to them,
no, you are right where you belong—

right here, in this life, 
longing for an 
impossible one.