by: Willow Kang
The rain is offensive
like a missile launching from a meadow,
damp like moss gone bad
expired fungi, depressed mold
Someone is misspelling words in the tree canopies
you want to yell at them
about what to do in the trees
kissing & not battling monkeys for a room in the ghetto
There will be no graveyard sleepovers today.
the ghosts have been bulldozed
soggy remnants of what were contented fireworks
mutter in their sleep about news from the border
Juliette weeps in the playroom, orange floors churning
Satyrs hop in, on their way to Paris
for a funeral, a horde of ivory hooves,
unbearably naive of how much we want
them butchered to concoct healing crystals.
Today is when angels decide to slumber