He told me something
beautiful
before I awoke.
By the time I opened
my eyes half a moon later
there was a
single
bird of paradise
growing from my parted lips.
Milk and
funeral carnations.
The distrust of
both our mothers
in a singular blinding
betrayal of color.
Bright singing white-hot flame.
Tripped and fell into a
catacomb of realizations,
reflections of a crystallized state of mind—
a perfected ideal of daughter.
Filial—maternal piety,
hari-kari over a broken cherry because
she decrees it so.
Not mommy issues, baby,
it’s the jocks of our generation who
wrestle
with
those.
Carnation, powdered milk
Beat the original to a pulp and then
punch it dry
Season it in death
and seal it in a
rattling casket.
the hairdo our
rocking procures
is better than I’ve ever myself produced.
Even under swift Korean hands,
it’s never had such a
bounce to it.
I’d love to
sing and pull from your soul
like acid in a litmus test.
Dark, forest greens for
base.
Like a magician, a husband, a golden calf;
you lay me down and with
few words—
sometimes none,
I shake and tremble, then:
coursing shades of violet from my mouth,
snaking orchids and
blooming, teeming Anthias.
You knew before I did
but I can show you still
borne.
still
born.
