songduciel

i wish to mold you into a favored bread

bake you until pleasurable consumption

but only one piece of you.

you are not even to be baked. you are not a you

there is a sweaty girl in the equator

who sits in the fields of her farm, brewing eyes watching the cassava grow

she sits in the refreshing heat, a heat that caresses her cheeks and plagues her mind

the fabric beneath my soles brushes against the concrete

cut and cut by the rough edge of this stone world

i come across a bill

raising it to my nose i breathe life and death,

that faint, mysterious scent that has

bare feet carve paths into the snow

a fleck of snow lands on my tongue, dissolving in its warmth 

flavorless and sweet, the fading taste of candy 

the salt of the warmth, the iron of red lakes

i roll off from the table

landing in a box filled with hay

finally, i think

i’ve found my rightful place

then i look around

the strings of hay

entangling themselves 

i bend myself to fit them

a dream, swirling in my tired mind, a sequence of letters makes a word.

my brain aches, an onslaught of countless words and numbers.

Get up, grasp the dream, make it out.

Get up, identify it!

Get up!

Get up!