Sidney Taiko's Death is Trending
       

If my little death started in that office, imagine something like an abandoned manor instead. Satis House, I think. Let me sit in rotten architecture—no slow loss this romantic—and receive a diagnosis. The first thought is always the same: where are the photos of my grandmother? I've spent too much time in Japantown taking pictures of strangers—she's gone-gone, she could be any of them. If my little death started with my grandmother this confirms everything that happens is entirely our own fault: my foot on a mannerist neck—filthy jaw/my wandering children—unborn/my mod dumpster soul—devouring. What museum is this? My whole damn life, lady: hair dripping with rain/was it even raining. If my little death started with my grandmother, then my mother knew all along. Mother, the impossibly drawn house. Mother, me, this wicked opera. She calls and always asks hello? as if that were the appropriate question. Did you misplace your hair? Your eyebrows? Did you receive your death sentence in a deserted craftsman? A stately mansion? Let it be completely unprecious this existence. O you doomed slut—who will touch you now? Star dust, star spit. Somedays I'm in the museum again—just surrounded by paintings of white people and desperate for an exit. Cupping the cold hard ass of a marble goddess whose tits broke off. I feel you, babe. I can't remember the last time I left a voicemail. If my little death could be a soft bending: a length of ribbon unravels. There are all these cells. Doing things. Should I be statued, let lie snow and bird shit on my shoulders. Black flowers—go figure. Little death, this was never my house—but oh god, can't you imagine? I'm on the veranda all hum and milk and finally filling out that skirt shaded bluest nude. My grandmother is in the turret—kimono rouged rococo. See my mother in the window? Furious—beautiful as a long sleeve. Look. It's going to snow—air postured for soft riot. I'll go forth into trendy parka weather. Breathe/bite/listen/turn. Someone is screaming. Whatever happens I deserve it. How generous of them. To host my funeral at a funhouse.

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Copyright © 2021 Sidney Taiko All rights reserved
from Black Warrior Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission