i killed the orchids
and they killed me, too
they weren’t supposed to die
i tried my best:
-drainage
-sparse watering
-light
-the necessary
they weren’t supposed to kill me, either
roots rotten
leaves died off
and my head lost in bark
i suffocated from too much air
they drowned of thirst
hunched backs in the field
mechanical movements of hands
seared sweat enhancing the flavor
of our favorite fruit
a basket to pool
the sun as overseer
laughter heard from miles away
like humming in one’s ears
if god exists, why am i ugly?
les glands de chêne
et d’autres glands enchainés
sont tous comestibles
moi j’en bois en infusion
comme le sanglier que je suis
like an aglet on chelsea boots
im better off without you
grey polyester blanket smells like home
and feels like dongguan
What would Henri Rousseau think of the basket of clementines before me?
Would he see a tiger in the jungle or a still-life waiting on representation?
Or maybe he’d see it as it is: aging fruit in an ageless capsule.
What would he think about me asking him?
mon verre est plastique
mon gobelet aussi
mais ma gourde, hamdulillah,
est en verre
Int.
A Cape Cod, closer to Cape May.
Two stories. Diglossic home.
phallic petrification
I. the body in progress
in pursuit of a marble physique,
i long to be like Him.
i calcify my standing self,
and submit to the will of the many:
the gays of instagram.
II. the gaze of instagram
he posts
i am his disciple
he captions
i receive his gospel
he poses
i covet his frame
he doesn’t reply
i am lost without his liturgy
he posts again
i am risen
III. the singular desire
i wash the simulation of his feet
and dream of the real thing
i backslide into sin
IV. the other voices
oh, demi-god of the screen,
we exalt your form and presence!
but how can we erect statues in your likeness
when we haven’t seen all of you yet?