GARBAGE SPACE SOUL TRASH
by Michelle Awad

This city

doesn’t do earth sounds,

it speaks
in tongues,
otherworldly garbled 
nonsense,
she says

melted sugar,

she says

orange glaze,

don’t listen, there is no

such thing

as listening, open

your mouth, concentrate
on
on the vibrations,
 my
bloodstream feels 
buoyant,
and willing; this

city says she 
was here

before the Ice Age and the

Big Bang. The liquor store

around the corner

sells butterscotch pudding

that’ll knock you dead, and

you’ll say thank you,

but it will sound

like cinnamon.

I was 26

when I moved here,

a little young

for my age, I slept

alone

except for when

I didn’t, I learned

to play the violin

on his heartstrings,

I learned there’s no such 
thing

as good whiskey, but 
you
don’t drink it

for the taste.

This city

doesn’t do earth sounds,

doesn’t do love songs, 

doesn’t do good morning

texts, I tell you—just

a drum beat you hear as

a confession, a sax solo that

needs an RSVP, it’s okay

to be a little less, to be 

a little more

than human, when it’s

healthy, just some good 

old-fashioned

trash soul space garbage,

some crushed velvet in your

veins, just 
goosebumps and

smoke rings, and you’d look

like a lava lamp if they opened

you up, honey. And you only

hear it

if you forget everything you know

about everything, about 
language,
and logic, there’s no 
room for biology
when she says

lemon zest, she says

turmeric, she says 

nape of my neck.



You lick your lips.