"These Weeds" by Rose Maloukis

Rose Maloukis

These Weeds

Spasms trouble a tired body, little flesh, no hunger. 
Leaves cycle, vanish, more and more empty sky.

Dishes fallen to the floor. A mouthful of beaten rice — I cannot swallow! 

A purple balloon buffeted by slow circulation, no direct draft.
Surface highlights, rotations wobble, roll then lull, they are imbalanced.
Are you alive if your breath — the balloon, under the blouse, senseless —
         vacant.

At any time    direction    train of thought    lost. 
How to make sense of
This heat persists, so humid it’s cold.
A desert’s chill without bird, light or law.

It smells true, faintly, that everything I know, has slipped. 

Misery arranged by weather.

Without warning gray turns to navy. 

Black lines the leaf.