– Marilyn Chin
The solitary animal walks alone. She has no uterus. She has no bone.
She slithers around dark bars and libraries. She carves
a beautiful girl on the cave wall. She dances with Aurora Borealis,
but goes home alone.
We are 7.5 billion. Thrust onto Earth together, we are not alone.
We shout at the stars, perhaps a Martian is listening, she/he/they
with ten thousand antennae, transversal labia quivering, searching for love.
Your half-drawn monolid eyes are most tantalizing, may I take you home?
Slime you with a green kiss? Breathe magma into your bones? Claw rainbows
onto your lips? Redecorate your home?
Our vertebrae are vibrating, signally: we are not alone. Sacrificed by a greedy
admiralty, we shall live forlornly, and be devoured, headfirst, by reptilian clones.
Inch back into your fern pods, why don’t ya! Baby, I call you, but you are not home. Somewhere in the cosmos, our lies are reverberating. Fake news is sad news. Shrapnel calcifying
into bone. Each day we begin on Earth as a dying person, each breath is one less
than yesterday, we shall die alone
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