Min K. Kang

knees on wooden floor

what small bullshit will I scrump today

please don’t like me only because I am familiar comfortable like sweatpants

sure I could warm my own yogurt behind the fridge
save a few plastic cups

but where would I squeeze the milk?
where is this cow?
where is my pasture?

as I like myself I think
if I get this thing I will be okay!

this is a lie
stop telling myself this lie

if I feel like swamp be swamp

then my finger starts to twitch   uht uh   no shakes

I search the web for right index tremors

I get:

Parkinson’s
carpel tunnel
stress

 

When I am afraid I don’t know how to read a book
or make comments about book
but I do               I touch it first

 

 

excerpt from domusphere, a long poem

*

can I tell you what is really in this room? a roach who doesn’t tire of collecting her pearls. an imposter fusion buffet, crusting at the stove

I only write when I feel the weight of patriarchy sitting juicy on my sternum, like Janet Jackson’s cover of Rolling Stone. so I don’t know if I love writing but I know that I like to look at writing as it writes itself so handsomely, what a good girl, doing work, right now!

*

out of sight out of my. tony thighs that ensure a stack of chicken breasts in the fridge. salted. a boiled boredom

don’t microwave THANK YOU bags from the store. don’t microwave chip bags to make a miniature LAY’S for your dollhouse. stop chip science

*

a coterie of votaries for my honey. a homesick fragrance for when I miss fish sauce, the thick kind that has the eyes of small shrimp embedded like seeds. slip into pages of cabbage in a rash of red

hot and heavy and heady. sloshing the meats and upheaving desire

cold morning obsessions. a hot pot

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