Arrangements

0.

My household adopted a tradition: every new year
leave quarters on every corner of the lot.
Let them rust unspent behind door hinges
on window sills with broken glass.

Fate will take care of worth
anyway. How much luck will
it cost for a piece of memory
to be lost? My exhaustion

adopted a habit: leave bills
on a pocket of today’s jeans.
Starve the next day. Keep
forgetting until sorted for laundry.

1.

Know your place. This time,
the authority was my mind. Too tired
of repeating the same name
from weeks of fever dreams.

I see my feet swinging along
with what I eat. Rice spooned out
of getting stuck in a corner. My answers
do not know where to sit on my tongue.

2.

Sad Heaven in June
mandated that your gaze
and mine do not meet
every single time.

There, the unnoticeable
attention span: were you
listening or asleep? I did
not care until something

gets out of hand. Requests
from a nervous voice, from
a nervous-looking boy. It was
raining when I closed my eyes.

3.

When I told you how I felt, it was admittance
rather than confession. I would resist.
Leave that to sinners. I would rather
admit as if I were devoted.

4.

Every morning, I look at the mirror
and brush my teeth. The taste of mint
replaces rust. Dirty mouth should not have sung
the heart out. Rinse. Avoid aches of the body.

If only fate resembles fortune in furniture. You will
stay there. This portion of the day, of your week, would be
forgettable for you. And I will be incense:
disappearing, inconspicuous, yet the scent will waft

away from you.

[28 January 2016, from A Collection I Chose Not To Give You]

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