I cut my gums on my sister’s engagement ring.
They ooze bright red sweet and sour sauce.
The thin skin of oil on the nighttime air splits
into smaller and smaller globules but never ever cracks.
Meanwhile, I hold on to the things I can’t grasp by the skins of my teeth.
At the wedding, grapefruit skins fall like laughter
from the hands of a flower girl
with a pocket full of rice and citrus scraps.
Grapefruit seeds. Swollen tear ducts. Calcified.
Flicked into the sink with a knife tip.
Anyone would attract fruit flies in this heat.
Sometimes I think things I’m not supposed to, like
I wonder if there is enough gold in my body to be worth something.
I suppose any amount of gold is worth something, even if
it’s just the promise of it from a rich man you’ve only just been introduced to.
I threw out all my makeup and took up meditation but
I still harbour traces of the desire to be an object of adornment.
See how even real gold turns my skin green?
The night air knows me better;
It climbs in through my bedroom window
And it drapes me in silver.
