Tinfoil Love

By Kyla Pasha

Things you say, I reread
like scripture, recite like
supplications to the one God of
get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here
and somehow
somehow, it proves itself balm.

I don't understand.
As if you only exist
when you open your mouth
or when I open
the window you live in.

You're like television.
I'm like the crazy woman
with foil antennae
wrapped around her head,
flailing in the wind and shrubbery,
no attention
to her bosom flying
every which way as she adjusts
for proper reception, fighting time
before the window closes
and then another day spent on buses,
dreaming.

Geography is my altar now.
Blood sacrifice
being dated and barbaric, we have
words, which are timeless, and saliva,
which is just as fluid, and dismay
at the fact of geography, bringing

separation full circle
and the devotee in perfect pain.
It's a dance, electronic and complete,
a great performance in the temple of
i-wish-you-were-here,
it's a song, wet and vicious,
equal to the task of
devotional anger,

deafening static
raging overland
to mask
antennas cocked for the sound of
you know
you know
I AM.


Previously published in Samar Magazine, Issue 25, 1/14/2007