ALT Screenshot: COURTENAY SCHEMBRI GRAY Ontogeny I have become somewhat corpse-happy. A mayfly preoccupied with life cycles. 24 carat lungs, decreasing by the hour. A moss-covered clock; the hands baking into the musty plastic — a melting moon. I wish to be a siren of the sea. A pillar of salt frolicking on the rocks; little tomes. Wolf-bitten, I am sick about the shade. I wash it down with a thimble of rum, smattering its coarseness against my gums.