Today is a good day, the first in a while,
and I want to unbutton the sleeves of desire.
Open all the windows and let April in.
It’s musty as hell in here. Let the sun take me
by the shoulders and kiss the grooves
of my collarbones. I’m alive and I have an appetite
for longing. So let them all in: the birds,
the strays. Even the things that buzz
in my ear. A fly dizzies past, languid,
then promptly forgets the open window.
He knocks again and again, louder
and louder, against the warm glass,
looking for escape. God, to make a nuisance
of my want until it’s all anyone hears.
To make my yearning known as I circle
a room. I admire this lust for life, so I let him live.
I fan him through the window with a dust
rag like I’m waving goodbye to a lover.
When I walk by the week-old box of oranges,
I cause a commotion. A shadow of fruit flies
lifts then disperses. A dead one floats
in my glass. The smell of rot sharpens each day,
rings of blue mold appearing one by one
until whole oranges turn ashen. Let them.
Desire is not without casualty.
I’m amazed that every insect that finds
its way in makes it to water–
the silverfish in the sink, the gnat
hovering over the dripping faucet.
It’s a superpower. A heightened nose
for that which they cannot live without.
I’d be lying if I said I never drowned them.
Sometimes, I want spectacle.
I drop each silver orange down
the drain and watch the spores erupt.