Such a drag, always hungry, yet
so hard to feed, wakeful, sick,
hating the weather, the air, you always said,
so vile, so vile, my hair turned white
pandering to your whims, I grew weak-kneed
lugging you around, a dead weight to bear.
My skin yellowed with your aches and pains,
and so, what was I to do then, born as they say,
to be one of your own? It got so bad,
I hardly knew when I took to biting chewing
gnawing at you while you thrashed about,
sucking and licking your juices as you ranted,
till I got you trimmed to a finger-size,
so tiny I could just tuck you like a pencil
behind my ear, or fold you flat, stamp-size square
in my wallet—or a lump I could hide behind my teeth,
then your salt-sweet bitterness stung my tongue
to the taste of its memories—and you melted,
melted and drained down my throat, so that now
I hardly feel your weight, I can’t tell anymore
whose voice breaks through my speech,
or how I gained the adder’s forked tongue
to command sorcery from the bright side
and the dark of the moon. Listen,
that song out there, that’s you and I,
wanting the sun forever gold on the skin,
calling back rivers to where they first sprung,
craving mangoes past their seasons,
avid as ever for this vile, vile air through
you complain that it steals your beauty
and corrupts my truth with questions.
Well then, my irascible queen, enough
of this petulance. So long as this singing last,
so long shall we thrive, you and I,