Let’s say I’m turned on by the ball pit. At Burger King,
we call it Play Palace. This the type of memory that shivers
 
tinsel when touched. I am encased, in a glistening globe of soft-boiled plastic. Dewed sweat dripping like flies. Behind me, 
 
the nervous twitch of netting. Before me, a slide. The pit. The children shrieking at the balls. The parents.
  
I am safe in my perch. Poised for a sensual descent. I must
permit myself this pleasure. I’ve had a hard day being a child. 

The pit. The parents. I watch them watching. Children from
 the waste up. There is something to this. A strategy, yes. For all 

I know, their genitals are plastic, smooth like baby doll. Like
the balls glittered in spit. Bleach-fume oblivion, a hot breath 

out the mouth of the slide, beckoning.  I take a last look
through the porthole. The chaos of children who snuck fries 

into the pit. Greased pagans slinging spheres of primary color.  
Creation. It’s Christmas Eve.  

To me, the other children are also some sort of Jew-ish. To me,
 Jew-ish means something uninteresting and elsewhere. 

Who else would be here, on this day, in this
shimmer of moment, between things. My people. The palace. 

The parents are the Christians and their crotches. Curious 
 that there is something rather than nothing. That all of these 

children were made for what. For their upper halves. Their 
mouths. For what goes in them. In. 

Are they really having it their way. For these are the sites in which we are taught choice. And so I slide. 

Friction tickles out a suggestion of body hair. Pursuing my fullest pleasure, I lick the plastic interior. My tongue 

crackles, bubble wrap. I’m safe. Swallowed. Forget form. The 
words I’m held to. The prismatic light growing, an arachnid 
 
forcefield spindling into my groin. I land. The sticky pit slow, 
infuse me into its sugar-sweat and oils. Pleasure when I feel 
 
nothing. Void is sensation. I want to slip a ball into my panties. 
So I do. Have it my way. The smooth fupa of a Ken doll. Or 

fuck it, why not Barbie, if I push in. Come on Barbie, let’s go 
party. Pop. Pleasure. My momentary shiver cut short by shouts. 

Children’s shouts. Then the parents. Because it’s me. And so 
I am told to split, meaning, to go elsewhere. To get out. Out.