Atopia. Sandra Simonds
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the queasy tides of history not
on our side and felt guilty and told no one.
The managerial class will punish us
with their monotonous, grueling blue eyes.
They will paw at our gates
and the houses will split open
as they go further in their quest
to forge digits, hemorrhage data.
Their constituents concentrate
on numerals as if their codes
were constructed by nuns.
Their unfailing power turns on itself
like love poems of pure possession,
like troubadour fantasies they tie
weights to your body and push you
gently into the blood river.
The factories in the background
are only imagined. They pump
and huff to transfix mimesis
like the face transplants of memes.
Flocks and flocks of stars
constellate the barbed wire
borders of the nation state.
This is where they plant cheap pine.
These kinds of trees don’t communicate with each other.
This is not the ecology of the forest,
it’s the ecology of a tree farm.
They create and destroy themselves for us
with no tie to the future or the past.
They used to make turpentine here.
A lot of workers tortured
in the convict leasing programs.
The company store was the only place to buy anything.
You worked all day in the swamp,
then you got yellow fever and died.
Rollover hedges all the way to the horizon.
I flipped through the pages of the Star Wars Journal
I bought my son. All the pages blank.
This is not a dystopia, it’s wreckage.
“Should I bleach my hair today and shave part of it off?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? I need a look as drastic as the world we live in.”
The Garden of Eden in sculpted information.
“My love, your hair is long, wild, and beautiful.”
Speculative cobwebs embroidered with flowers.
Back in the love garden of eternal truth, I am
as unhurried
as the smallest
creature left
to revel in its own zigzag.
Take the fucking wine away! Its red center,
the Saturns of my splendor and my emotional
landscape is cured for a day or a daydream is turned
into the vicious news cycle reeling in pain.
Destroy my body, take away the wine and the drugs
and the centers of my thinking
so naked before you.
Take away the music and the car and the job,
take away my body
and, once and for all, fuck riddles.
There is nothing mysterious to do here:
I am just goose bumps and nipples.
That hail is rare in South Georgia
That once my colleague saw a twelve-foot alligator on 319 before they divided the road
That that was twenty years ago
That I regret reading an article on what it is really like to have Trump-supporting parents
That I feel bad for saying that
That my kids are eating toast for breakfast this morning
That when they don’t eat what I think they are supposed to eat, the guilt is overwhelming
That I am a single mother
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