Ask a rosebud about pliers and it will hum to you the silk of seasons. Ask a body about scissors and it will convulse a name. It will think, silk, despite abrasions. What time does to the body longing, its desperation to become a rose, is an attempt to atone: new windows in lieu of new homes. It will think, bamboo, despite bruised knees. As if the currency of affection is unbearable heat. Its bones are not copper and yet it calls itself wolfram. Its skin is paper and yet it desires a blacksmith’s hand. It dreams of a rose as it makes love to a crowbar. As it fucks it twice, and cries out the second time. Ask a body now about a name and learn about monuments. What lingers there is a memory made in supersaturation. A memory sweet in its fabrication. There is a song about concrete resembling flower beds, somewhere. Like a scent. Rosy, like tar. The answer is still a matter of evolution. For now, the body gapes for pollen.
Lian Sing is a Filipino poet with works previously published in Signos (MAPA Books) and the Canadian journal (parenthetical). She is an advocate of the feminine, and believes in living conscientiously with the human and the nonhuman.