Dear Zygote,
You should enjoy your limniad state,
nymph-like and windless, there on two sides
of a threshold. Howsoever, the WordHippo
wonders if I mean to speak lemonade.
This saké is murky, and it makes me wish
I could tottle off to that original somewhere
in whom even the wines sip words
and live alphabets draw on that spliff
of night air. Life Speck, here is
the ordinal pregnancy:
Without each other, we hole up
within each other. Remember, too,
I have been busy, turning
the soil in the few people’s hearts
I plan to rename the grave
when my day comes: Am hoping to sow
the silt-line conditions for a happy death—
choired by Husband Consciousness—
that wry spirit-vegetable. That solid air
loyalty. Netflix, elsewhere,
boots into verb, while power lopes in
to daily unheaven everyone. Still,
for the most part, Ms. Zygote Missive,
you are the test of the great human maybe,
there in that mother-hip meadow—
that namelessly face-free state
of between. Dear nymph-dividual:
Let me not spew lemonade,
as I’ve gotten wind of your balls-out greed
for the good of all species.
This poem was just published in Raptosh’s full-length collection, Dear Z: The Zygote Epistles (Etruscan Press 2020).
