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.
