after Tina Takemoto
I will paint us together
in lemon and burnt shoyu.
I will squeeze us out of
flour, water, yeast
while you dress
behind the thin curtain
while you flatten
lapel, collar, slacks
in our tightly ironed
tar paper life.
Your tie clip, carved from
ancient wood and not
the real topaz you deserve.
Outside, we shuffle in dust
flap powder
from between our feathers.
I used to be a swamp.
In this government aviary
dust storms can’t be predicted
unlike the government
which splits atoms
the way it did your chest.
Spilled you
on the ancient sea bed.
The mountains blow
their alien breath in you
while sleek muscle men
cactus across my humid eyes.
They don’t stop
to light my cigarette
or palm a slice of
fresh, warm bread.
Now bluebirds trill
from my cuffs
and it’s time to clock out.
Beyond the perfect
frame of this prison city
desert peaks buzz
the rich, rich song
of my hunger.
Copyright © 2019 by Kenji C. Liu. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 17, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
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