On the patio soaked
from the all-day rain
turning the flat roof
into an untuned piano,
my carnivorous flower
trapping a flesh fly’s
memory of viscosity
before closing quick
to devour everything,
legs, wings, and thirst.

In my mom’s kitchen
smelling of olive oil
and herbs, her old
beef stew bubbling
like how it simmered
in her grandmothers’
stirring that reminds
of a home an ocean
away and gestation.

On the dining table,
a basket of apples,
the still life exciting
my palate too sour
from the murmurs
about the jalapeños
keen to bite a tongue
and those big-hatted
men who abandon
wives to pick fruits.

In the living room,
my feline, Siamese,
perhaps, will soon
be state-forbidden,
an alien consuming
local food provision
and stealing mouse
jobs from those cats
that refuse to sully
their fur with mud.

On the marbled sink
mimicking a shore
after winds and waves,
stout bottles of wash,
lavender, chamomile,
and spring that comes
early on all my limbs
blushing a night fever
from remembering
faces and menopause.

In my lamp-lit room,
lying down to survey
the stars and behold
the moving roundness
of the moon subtle
on the plaster ceiling,
scared of uncertainties,
fearful of what is not
known and familiar,
I timidly touch myself.


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