The Story of Leucothoe and the Sun
In lieu of flowers, please send Funyuns.
I took to the muumuu far too easily,
you see, the mashed potatoes
of my middle jiggling gently. I would run
but am easily winded. I would wear
m’lady’s fishnets over my head
if I thought it would prevent
the transmission of seed
to plant. The sun machine
is coming down & we’re going to have
a party in the breezeway
with paper towels & dried beans.
Let love in but be sure
to maintain a safe distance
lest ye be marked unclean
& dried & burnt to purge the spirits
of disease.
The Transformation of Clytie
Invent a simple story to explain
basic phenomena, like how
the neighbors cluster in pods
because the sun has turned
them into finches for malice
or how dead plants linger
in terrariums for years
while sprouting potatoes
in the pantry loop fronds
for former, more formal
arrangements. Stranger, please stay
beyond the zoonotic spillover zone,
for stale tales wail over stone. Under
the layers, she’s as misbegotten
as you are. Death might
pop a wheelie as he waves his scythe,
but it shouldn’t stop you
from jamming a stick
in his spokes and sending him
chin first into the sea
where the deathless jellies
float like ghosts in the dark.
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