Monday, December 5, 2016

Vines by Kaveh Akbar


there are fat wet vines creeping into my
                                             house through the pipes and through

                               the walls gentle as blue flames they curl into
my living there is ice in my attic sugar on my
                tile I am present and useless like a nose torn

                                        from a face and set in a bowl when
                            I saw God I used the wrong pronouns

                                               God bricked up my mouthhole
                                                       his fists were white as gold there were
                            roaches in my beard now I live like a widow

every day a heave of knitting patterns
                                            and sex toys my family speaks of me

                           with such pride noonesh to roghane they say
his bread is in oil I thank them for that and
                 for their chromosomes most of which

                                            have been lovely I am lovely too my body
                             is hard and choked with juice like a plastic

                                               throat stuffed with real grapes my turn-ons
                                                      include Ovid and fake leather my turn-
                             offs have all been ushered into the base-

ment I’ll drink to them and to any victory
                                           the vines are all growing toward the foot

                             of my bed I am waiting for them to come
under the covers I am the only person still in
                  this house there is no one here to look away


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