Poetry

Caviar

“I want to watch the world burn,”
he said, eyes alighting —
the color of newly minted
golden eagles and chardonnay.
Burnished mischief.

“Let the poor eat each other,”
he said, lips simpering–
the taste of sanguine blood
on a white hospital gown.
Cruel antipathy.

“Humanity, in all its petty indifferences,
blatant ignorances, and misplaced allegiances,
deserves what’s coming,”
he said, heart pounding–
the sound of cosmic
drums of conflict, drums of war.
Incarnated vanquisher.

“My death, my darling,
I would do anything for you,”
she said, sword brandished —
the feel of cunning steel,
keen to find a bosomed home.
Suicide.

Featured image by Jean Philippe JACOB on Unsplash

Poetry, Unbound

Avocado Toast

I have these moments
where I experience the paradox of
words coming into being
at the precipice of their inception
and words dying,
supernovas of cultural extinction.

I wonder if that’s how the Aztecs felt
the moment āhuacatl lost its life —
lost its ability to testify
to the avocado’s testicular formation —
when the Spanish conquistadors
grew enough balls to sail across the seas
and dominate a people
they should’ve left well-enough alone.

Aguacate they called it
refusing viable auditory nuances
of Nahuatl testimony.

These days, we call it “avocado”
because everything sounds
(and tastes) “better” with white-bread
when you crush it against the
English tongue in this country.

Featured image by Nur Afni Setiyaningrum on Unsplash