sunflower
in early august,
the sunflower begins to dry
the hum of its bumblebee weakens,
stiffens,
and at last,
falls.
in a few days,
the petals will have crumbled,
and the wilted face will no longer move with the light.
it waits for the evening wind to come
and carry it away to someplace foreign
and someplace new.
death, too,
can be loving. x
martyrdom
The historical poaching of African and Asian elephants, which has caused severe biodiversity loss and eroded the cultural values and resilience of the marginalized communities forced to hunt them, was largely driven by demands for ivory in Western Europe and the United States. In these regions, ivory served as a status symbol and was widely crafted into luxury goods such as jewelry, musical instruments, and decorative items.
on tiptoe, a piano
sails away to asia.
black elephants bathe
in sea salt and gunpowder.
i have never seen bodies
like this before.
pieces of piano keys
lie dead on the savanna.
the women and children
collect them in baskets
weaved with their tears.
like strawberries.
i have never seen bodies
like this before.
ivory elephants,
i play with you.
as an ecological genocide
lingers in my hands.
the music is torrential
and faceless.
nevertheless,
a piano sails away
to america on tiptoe.
how strange.
flow my tears
la vie d’artiste
in the city, thunderstorms
peer across my windowsill
a cigarette strokes my hand and falls away.
newspapers collapse and inflate
roaming the corners of my loft
like a beluga whale, gasping for air.
the moon dies in my palm.
paintings on the wall
recoil and convulse
among the flames
a chained lion waltzes
in form of a candle wick.
blackberries drool heavy
and clasp my breath.
and outraged raindrops purge
on indigenous ashen glass
like wasps.
the mahogany echoes
and the pen scrawls
trembling a milk jar
sipped, threadlike in ceremony.
ive painted a flower black
dipped in ink
a heterochromatic kitten
bawls.
as the wallflowers grow.
a cigarette strokes my hand and falls away.
and the wall bursts and burns again
cyclically
thunderstorms peer across
my windowsill in the city.
flow my tears. x
black blossoms
angel wings of black soot
i carry you home from mass.
the candlewax melts in my hands
and your feathers fall one by one.
the aftermath of ravens ruptured
breadcrumbs to father’s cedar cross.
my skin is ashen
like the chrysanthemums we pass.
sarah, you are dying.
and the church bells ring from behind.
how angelic.
angel wings of black soot
i carry you home from mass.
a soprano plays in the distance
and levitates like wish flowers do
as they surf converging winds.
it comes from the cathedral
where they once hanged you.
sarah, they sing for you.
and the air becomes hollow as we go on.
how pragmatic.
angel wings of black soot
i carry you home from mass.
the peach trees are showering in blossoms
and its angles run parallel to the sun’s.
i realize now that i am weeping
three-year-olds with stolen virginities
they must not be expected to live so long.
tell me now, is self murder still a sin?
sarah, the last of your feathers have fallen.
and black blossoms are no longer distinguishable from pink.
how angelic. x
rituals of lavender
the sailboats line the embankment
where the blood of the moon touches heaven.
cold stars weep in blurry extinguished light
as white river marries sky.
here i am, standing
barefooted in bare soil
as the wind lifts the lavender
and the horizon melts in my hands.
funerals are quite beautiful
when they take place in the sky.