Zebra heart, cross it out, or let a boy make a bridle and a ride and a
blur on white on blacklight. Oh the hot era, extinction in theory,
X chromosome, X chromosome, sex pheromone, when some magic
deletes all thought to death. Dog and door, we buffer. When I flew
voluptuous fur to the after, he came back an anima in love, mule,
frustrated to a genetic and cried It's the blueprint of why I want you
that way, pulled back. I let a boy stripe me and bit the bit, so a ring
hurried up, shining in the street like a factory of parts and holes.
Real animals don't think twice I thought, and shotgunned the safari,
jackaled up to a wild noise and not a loving voice. I sold for an IQ
pointillist's first book in the market's muddy pen. I sold by the lick.
Let the clarity roosters keep the smooth, the running, the placebo
no beast could believe in. Let the kept cocks live to fuck and whim.
No maker of mine will ever come near my phenome now, a farm
lined with gold threat. Flea soul, mate survivor to survival or let go,
peeled down to the whip. In love is a circus and a hoop to buck
just around the bent in the boy, and my ghost lion racing the tranq,
roaring in reverse, I mean, remorse, I mean, ticket to mastery, or I
healed up nicely, didn't I? Love is a boy running out to repossess
the feral who fled the house, is it? Filigree, fury, diamond thing
fractaling, a narrative around a neck used to take me home to a you—
vulture urges in the ugliest night used to home a you in on a me.
Don't let a boy ride you to death and live, thoroughbred. Now I'm raw
xenocracy at war in a yoke and the stable heaves up love is a panic
boys don't ask to own to break. Dear hart. Not you. Not the proxy
zoos bred me to bear to unflora at the dawn of an era. No. A boa.
Lo Kwa Mei-en is the author of YEARLING (Alice James Books, 2015), winner of the Kundiman Poetry Prize. She is from Singapore and Cincinnati, Ohio, where she currently lives and works.