There was a longing / in the carvings of the / knife my mother held / against the fruit. She / peels with quiet / permission.
There was a swimming pool. I was dead.
There was a Good Dancing Time. I was dead.
I applied for a visa but was told I was thirty
thousand dollars short from being dead.
Now I wish there was an application process
for a water bed. It should hold all my fish
and my pets. It should also double as a casket.
Here is my resume. Look, I am so fleshed.
All this work makes my mind so freshed.
Behind this skin, I am still my skin.
I shed and shed. The sky is throwing water
bombs. I strap them around my chest.
All I have got to do now is run
into men and go Splash Splash.
There is no meaning in too much meaning.
There is no sound in too much yell.
I smoke. I high.
With eyes closed, I pray fajr in my bed.
There was a longing in the carvings of the knife my mother held against the fruit. She peels with quiet permission. It is the only thing she can eat right now. The apple is shy, red only in spots, still alive without its season. Earlier in the day, I ate without touching from a tree– some hanging game with my hands tied behind my back, the apple stalk noosed by a single white thread, and my mouth snapping to catch the fleshed body at sway. Grossed heavy in spit and juice, all that is my mouth drips down my chin. It sugars the dead leaves of autumn fall, dampens the soil enough for it to hold close my drenched voice. I am the animal, my mother my beast. I am licking the oceans away, howling off this distance, scavenging for gratitude on shadowed days. On my finger lies another finger: a soft brown hook clinging like a seedling to its earth, an adjoining to a fractured limb and bone, a root inseparable from its origin.