germinate

The short black nights, the dumb mist

shrouding the performative zombies hurling rubber tyres,

freakishly adult by proxy,

roasting the thistle for the people’s embargo.

My grandmother would be proud                       to see inside my pockets,

a paroxysm

of pudding rice for potatoes

sweet as guavas

                  the glossy lip balm in the right

and the packet of tissues in the left.                  Whatever

poison is             r   u  n    n   i   n  g

         t      h       r       o      u       g      h    

                                    my blood

is branded Dior and smells of Shalimar

and I didn’t clean it in the frog spawn.