Balloon, then papier mâché.
Gray paint, blue and turquoise, green,
a clouded world with fishing line attached
to an old light, original to the house, faux brass
chipping, discolored, an ugly thing. What must
the people of this planet think, the ground
knobby and dry, the oceans blue powder,
the farmland stiff and carefully maintained.
Sometimes they spin one direction,
then back again. How the coyotes howl.
How the people learn to love, regardless.
The majesty of their own towering hearts.
The mountains, which they agree are beautiful.
And the turquoise—never has there been
such a color, breaking into precious
and semi-precious stones. They build houses
from them, grand places of worship,
and there is much to worship. Look up,
for instance. Six suns. The wonder of it.
First one, then the next, eclipsing
the possibility that their world hangs by a thread.
I turn on a light in a room I pace away from
take comfort behind neon signs nested in wires
an errant mirror propped against a commercial strip
or cradled awkwardly in the elbows of a passerby
my legs become their legs
mushrooms came before us needing no light
now they clean up oil spills rebuild biomes
ripped green awnings of my youth have become
sleek noun and noun stores like Gold and Rust where
you can buy boutique sticks stones dead flowers
I’m more turned on by the defunct Mustang
its turquoise alive in the rain nostalgia is dangerous
turquoise that took millions of years to form mined up
when there was one woman per one thousand men
Jin Ho threw herself into the bay when she learned
she would be sold into prostitution
threw herself not jumped so even in history she is
an object possessing herself in an act of dispossession
you make everything about yourself
as if there’s another realm where I am real
if only there was something essential
an oil I could purchase that would reflect only you
in my floral wrists shielding my eyes
here take everything my social security number
my hope that the rush of a population will crash