and I do creep into your weird
grossness. Although I reel
at the absurd, the anthropomorphic: when you
unify jagged things, I spasm. It’s not
that I fear the tentacles: nor that snakes,
slinking, or the buttery gut punch
of a jellyfish hold jurisdiction.
I don’t mean claws—gruesome, stark—
can clench: they cannot grasp.
Whatever I expected, it was not this.
Backwards advancement: an education
in alien code. Known voice
unfamiliar within glints of projection.
What I mean: syncopation makes
injury gleam unremarkably
acceptable. What I do not say:
this is recast. Of all of my
ruses, past-blasted, best rested.
You trace the membrane’s
framework as if you
never knew circles until now.
What would it take to retire
you to apparition. If I could
reinvent the three eyes,
purplish lips: but of course
you function too well, unremorseful.
When singled out each small
exaggeration seems exhausted.
I might seek relentless, a questioning orb.
I cannot eat, blue from warning,
cannot sleep until indulged. So:
strength my unbecoming.
I know: this won’t be how I
turn. My inner tone holds
an even inflection. I am
sparse: without qualifiers, calmness
in a storm’s eye. I cannot bear
self within me.
Maya is a poet, performer and daydreamer who probably spends too much
time thinking about snacks. She grew up with two languages and cultures
and her poetry and art attempts to process the complex emotions that are
part of being a person. She works in a bookstore where, to much joy and
chagrin, she finds at least ten things she wants to read every day.