How hard it is to sleep

in the middle of a life.

— Audre Lorde

We wake in the middle of a life, hungry.



We smear durian along our mouths, sing soft



death a lullaby. Carcass breath, eros of licked fingers



and the finest perfume. What is love if not rot?



We wear the fruit’s hull as a spiked crown, grinning



in green armor. Death to the grub, fat in his milky



shuffle! Death to the lawlessness of dirt! Death



to mud and its false chocolate! To the bloated sun



we want to slice open and yolk all over



the village. We want a sun-drenched slug feast,



an omelet loosening its folds like hot Jell-O. We want



the marbled fat of steak and all its swirling pink



galaxies. We want the drool, the gnash, the pluck of



each corn kernel, raw and summer swell.



Tears welling up oil. Order up! Pickled



cucumbers piled like logs for a fire, like fat limbs we



pepper and succulent in. Order up: shrimp



chips curling in a porcelain bowl like subway seats.



Grapes peeled from bitter bark — almost translucent,



like eyes we would rather see. Little girl, what do you



leave, leaven in your sight? Death to the open



eyes of the dying. Here, there are so many open



eyes we can’t close each one. No, we did not say



the steamed eye of a fish. No eyelids fluttering like



no butterfly wings. No purple yam lips. We said eyes.



Still and resolute as a heartbreaker. Does this break



your heart? Look, we don’t want



to be rude, but seconds, please. Want: globes of oranges



swallowed whole like a basketball or Mars or whatever



planet is the most delicious. Slather Saturn!



Ferment Mercury! Lap up its film of dust, yuk sung!



Seconds, thirds, fourths! Meat wool! A bouquet of



chicken feet! A garden of melons, monstrous



in their bulge! Prune back nothing. We purr



in this garden. We comb through berries and come out



so blue. Little girl, lasso tofu, the rope



slicing its belly clean. Deep fry a cloud so it tastes like



bitter gourd or your father leaving — the exhaust of



his car, charred. Serenade a snake and slither its tongue



into yours and bite. Love! What is love



if not knotted in garlic? Child, we move through graves



like eels, delicious with our heads first, our mouths



agape. Our teeth: little needles to stitch a factory of



everything made in China. You ask: Are you hungry?



Hunger eats through the air like ozone. You ask: What



does it mean to be rootless? Roots are good to use as



toothpicks. You: How can you wake in the middle of



a life? We shut and open our eyes like the sun shining



on tossed pennies in a forgotten well. Bald copper,



blood. Yu choy bolts into roses down here.



While you were sleeping, we woke to the old leaves



of your backyard shed and ate that and one of your



lost flip-flops too. In a future life, we saw rats overtake



a supermarket with so much milk, we turned opaque.



We wake to something boiling. We wake to wash dirt



from lettuce, to blossom into your face. Aphids along



the lashes. Little girl, don’t forget to take care



of the chickens, squawking in their mess and stench.



Did our mouths buckle at the sight



of you devouring slice after slice of pizza and



the greasy box too? Does this frontier swoon for you?



It’s time to wake up. Wake the tapeworm who loves



his home. Wake the ants, let them do-si-do



a spoonful of peanut butter. Tell us, little girl, are you



hungry, awake, astonished enough?





