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.