"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.