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Sunday, April 22, 2018

And No Bird Sings

The eggs were sprinkled with a golden helping

of turmeric, a passive entry in. It has been years

since I erotic in the street became a case for letting

go. The body like the sound is made to fade. I broke

the rules and dreamed through yesterday’s poems. Such

passive entry in shackles us to the idea that the speaker

lacks the agency we crave. But I have become chronic,

sleep talking to the body next to me, baby enchilado, its

shadow, I poet to the body who is male and straight and

smarter than what I am. The interrogative suggests I try

often to conjure narrative through. A snake standing

on itself is not, then, standing, but stepping out

of its limits. Referencing it as it points to a machinery

with which I disagree. Into a custard I deepen the hue

of mistake. I dream we are tasked with unpacking

the adverbial shift in the sentence and we are all in

imminent danger. The we is me and a series of firefighters

who desire me by being selectively indignant towards me.

The woman gently says three words, neither of which are

subject-verb constructions. My pen dies. She repeats a sentence

different from her initial three, this time in proper subject-verb.

We fall apart importantly. A girl sings in the morning.

It is spring. An orbit, we think, waits to take us. The French

fold their omelets into a neat scroll. I did it all perfectly. Wait.

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