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Monday, April 16, 2018

I THOUGHT VERY HARD AND THOUGHT OF NOTHING



Imagine a landscape of so many kinds of fields we cannot
see it. I am trying to imagine a landscape with so many

kinds of fields. In one segment, a hyena drags her clitoris
across the plains, a dust perfuming up. A god leans down

and warns of this mixed metaphor, that dust should not
perfume because perfume perfumes. In another segment,

a femur filled with rain. It is a lush grasslands within which
the greens have sprouted through the brittle joints of animals.

This seems to be a metaphor for growth and resistance. A
single signed dollar rolls through the wind. I am reading

a book that imagines, among other things, a world without
trees. I wrote a book that imagines, among other things, a world

without men. The book is splayed out on my parents’ dresser,
open in an early part of the book. I imagine they read the

list of men and my age with these men and simply placed
the book  upside down, like folks do when they no longer

want to see information. I no longer want to see information.
In another segment, a series of candles of weasel oil, such is

the cure-all in this aspect of land. Mostly the candles are not
lit. At night the moon makes the earth shine like bottleneck

flies, a glimmer here and there where a lachrymose flame
continues on. A god peaks past the clit of the hyena

disapprovingly, as evidenced by their glare and nod. But I
want a god to glare and nod. I want a god to do anything at all

with my debts. In another segment, my grandmother is still
living and she is watching a pack of lionesses feasting inside

the ribcage of a zebra. At first, she tells us, she believes
the zebra to be sleeping on her side, but the lions are moving

her skin under the membrane of bones. My grandmother
told this story often, about when she went to Kenya, after

living abroad in Germany and Switzerland and Egypt.
It’s like I always say: The evenings wait for the kind of

death we get, but we are fond of evenings and not of death.
In another segment, the last one, we know it to be last

because a single woman is braiding her hair in a desert.
It has been here before and will continue. A god whimpers.

1 comment:

Radish King said...

Beautiful and aches my body. Thank you.
Rebecca