“we’ve eaten the ozone again” and “the sound of burning paper mâché”

we’ve eaten the ozone again

now, the only ethical source of consumption in america is the dream. i awake with oil clotting menstruation-like between my toes, sealing me to the bed already wet with bloody goose feathers. jarred bits of permafrost sit thawing on my windowsill. the arctic bacteria floats to the top like upside-down maggot bodies. i tip-toe about the room. here, in america, my frostbitten lips are always full of wildfire. here, in the room, my hemline is always catching to fire and rats. in your corner chair, you sit rocking coughing so close a coo away from choking. you remind me not to resuscitate you by pointing outside. my vision blurs at the water’s blackened edge. today, we size-up the rising atlantic. you ask if you might fit it whole in your belly: would you implode or shatter? we spend the afternoon dancing on the tops of fallen architecture. your mind shivers: a cliffside sliding into the sea. your words a slippage pooling in a bath of petroleum. you and i, we’re always arriving too late to prophecy. i’ve found myself seizing a flooded city for no god, no mad king waits for me here. water leaks wantonly through queen-sized holes, empties in emptied reservoirs. i hold your hair back as your body fails vomiting. still we remove our timepieces, holding them as mirrors to the sky. rainbows ricochet in the flairs of ozone: falling snowlike, crystallizing our eyes.

the sound of burning paper mâché

pluck me from the swaying pendulum                            i’ve coughed up                         my   last   girl
body     found in the city’s trash            incinerator                     scrub my throat like it’s the shower
climate change deniers are       procreating at alarming rates            i bury ghosts in my womb
like poisoned berries                  your love is like winning         a car at the mall          i  drive  round
the        parking lot for hours                 smoke seeps curtain-like          beneath my door       if
you’re looking for the                 america of the early 2000s     you may try looking under your bed
you’ve left the oven on in your diorama

Image: Photo is Public Domain, via Rawpixel.