Lunar Lunch
soft purple yams and common talk past expiration, sticky citron tea in thin glass stewed daikon, wet miyeok in two black plaits inverted nipples, pitted olives in a pinch pot pinched beyond intent armpits like split figs pink in the center, a dead wasp in the center, cut into rounds the way she did it no use for solitude today, come over pls rice cakes suspended in cum soup, laced with raggy egg soondae dotted with barley, the blood of whom pinching at the edges is how much these things cost and for what sustenance to look at the surface where pleasantries live and histories abbreviate custom compels me to offer you this poem by way of invitation
Leftovers for the End of Summer
1. Yesterday was nothing on the street the people sounds, you murmured. You. The open window to hear the people sounds drinking in the kitchen together, so important you said. Me. Insistence fluctuating between heart murmurs, co-pilot toying with eject, with switch, end stop. Earthy strawberries, small and fragrant, part armpit held in aspic, a saucer of them mulching down toward mold. You are so poor, you said. Poor baby. Me. The pages of summer ablaze against the white sheet of our window but night. Glistening heat jellied to an unctuous vein pulsing slower. Mulching. Swoon. An organ surpassing the rack of confines. You. This is why I steal the roses, you said. Night murmurs an octave lower, moans gleaming over tight complexes. Our city 2. Outside the furthest reflexes of moon a varnish of light sweeps the balcony you are shaped from within, honey, your pants laved with thrumming impulse drawing back to bare teeth slivering scallions lengthwise to make them curl I think of this: springing, recalcitrant pussies confessing their emptiness in the coolness of night earthling approximation of divine rapture tonight a bowl of rice heaped with tendrils vibrissae of scallion and purslane, lovage and perilla threading together an exquisite corpse I ask you are you eating well have you called your father and what of this debt
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