The Dumb Conversation
I made my way through med school
forging copies of The Cliffs at Etretat,
selling them sight unseen through a textile designer
in a coastal town near Taipei.
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles is based on
a fever dream I had on an
overnight express train as it passed through Madrid.
Haruki’s letter-carrier recorded my dream
on the flip-side of one hundred whisper-white envelopes
while I thrashed and sweated and talked in my sleep.
I have a patent pending on a procedure
to implant tiny magnets in the fingertips of Hindi orphans.
Ayurvedically, I am Kapha, with
general equilibrium, mild dynamisism, and a
sharp appreciation of wet sand and damp dirt.
Astrologically, I am earth four times over.
My beginning tarot card is The Fool.
I have 14 colons, twisted cozily
in the crowded vault where my uterus should be.
I am not Conceptual.
I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you.
I trust you, I trust you, I believe you.
For revenge I once
Out of spite I once
On a dare I once
I have a two-tone tattoo of a howler monkey on my spleen.
I’ve donated the bone marrow
from the eastern crest of my illium to my alma mater.
False colored and imperfectly nickeline,
its primary function is yet to be determined.
Odd months I return to campus for autologous extractions.
I can commune with spiders.
They taught me to weave this gown I’m wearing.
I conduct a course in linguistic
code switching for wayward seafarers.
If I eat ___ before bed I always dream of ___.
I once saved a woman from drowning by
one hundred four leaf clovers,
making a net that stretched from Dover beach to Bonnie Dunes.
She grabbed hold and,
with the help of a runty fish her grandmother had set free,
pulled herself to shore.