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a supermarket in taipei

i love eating white girl salads with wooden chopsticks dug from the back of my cutlery drawer

there was an asian woman consulting romaine hearts this evening (i didn’t need any; had halfa heart waiting at home [capers, black olives, questionable carrots, cumin and lime dressing on the side])

she fretted as she compared squatted tossed in turn for as long as it took me to turn my ear screeching cart round to debate why some apples cost more

then i remembered

i couldn’t read chinese


only the small four digit code stickers still familiar;

my high school job punching these aligned with scales, streaming back like the icy blast of the parking lot automatic door opening opening more than closing

cuz it was always christmas in america

and these were rich people

who the fuck still wants fruit in their stocking?—ask if the crab meat is real and quit moaning about what kind of plum i presumed


behave


i wanted to speak chinese

so we could become lovers

lost forever

each armed with one chopstick

poking produce

pinching sense

making small brown spots

monumental in our choosing

weighing centers against the wilt

calculating limp, limbs rooted into each

akimbo is japanese is it not?

and the fuji apples are from where?

the american imports last the least

i’ll take you on the bus to the bourgeoisie

24 hour joint

with stinky cheese


climb in my sheets

leave the spoiling for tomorrow


could fry an egg on the cement it’s so caliente

the little girl’s mind is disobedient. she likes to skip down the city cement, out of shouting range. she likes to read old books, playing deaf outside older windows. she likes to peek through fences, playing with backyard boys she isn’t meant to know. she likes to pretend she goes out, goes somewhere difficult. she likes to pretend she’s allowed to be anywhere but here. she begs for an above ground pool, but no one is ever allowed in it. she begs for some sunglasses to lie down in the driveway, but the cement is so hot and the yellow jackets so large, she’s sure a form of death will take her before reaching tan. the little girl is always so obedient. she watches television in the front porch praying for one day a safe escape. her mother tells her girls get kidnapped, raped by multitudes of boys. there are bad men at the streetlamps; the men her mom brings home are fine. the swings will soar you over used needles. the balls you kick will roll beneath deathtrap vans. the babysitters aren’t to be trusted. her great-grandfather is not to be trusted now either. if anything is loose, you could be poisoned. if anything is quiet, it could be a trap. if anything is exciting, it can’t be honest. if you head onto hot streets, your heels will flame up on your path to hell. there shall never be a summer dusk before you’re back.

the bedroom

the bedroom

poetic meditation 'translation' based on IG photo by @leoralovejoy and poem 'die kind' by ingrid jonker