After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly

We wake in the middle of a life,                    hungry.

We smear durian            along our mouths, sing soft

death a lullaby. Carcass breath, eros of  licked fingers

and the finest perfume. What is love if  not         rot?

We wear the fruit’s hull as a spiked crown, grinning

in green armor.   Death to the grub, fat in his milky

shuffle! Death to the lawlessness       of dirt! Death

to mud and its false chocolate!   To the bloated sun

we want to slice open and yolk                      all over

the village. We want a sun-drenched           slug feast,

an omelet loosening its folds like hot Jell-O. We want

the marbled fat of steak and all        its swirling pink

galaxies. We want the drool, the gnash, the pluck of

each corn kernel, raw and summer                   swell.

Tears welling up                     oil. Order up! Pickled

cucumbers piled like logs for a fire, like fat limbs we

pepper and succulent                in. Order up: shrimp

chips curling in a porcelain bowl like subway seats.

Grapes peeled from bitter bark — almost translucent,

like eyes we would rather see. Little girl, what do you

leave, leaven              in your sight? Death to the open

eyes of  the dying. Here,           there are so many open

eyes we can’t close each one.          No, we did not say

the steamed eye of a fish. No eyelids fluttering like

no butterfly wings. No purple yam lips. We said eyes.

Still and resolute as a heartbreaker.         Does this break

your heart?                                      Look, we don’t want

to be rude, but seconds, please. Want: globes of oranges

swallowed whole like a basketball or Mars or whatever

planet is the most delicious.                   Slather Saturn!

Ferment Mercury! Lap up its film of dust, yuk sung!

Seconds, thirds, fourths! Meat wool! A bouquet of

chicken feet! A garden of                   melons, monstrous

in their bulge!               Prune back nothing. We purr

in this garden. We comb through berries and come out

so blue. Little girl,                            lasso tofu, the rope

slicing its belly clean. Deep fry a cloud so it tastes like

bitter gourd or your father leaving — the exhaust of

his car, charred. Serenade a snake and slither its tongue

into yours and                           bite. Love! What is love

if  not knotted in garlic? Child, we move through graves

like eels, delicious         with our heads first, our mouths

agape. Our teeth:         little needles to stitch a factory of

everything made in China.      You ask: Are you hungry?

Hunger eats through the air like ozone. You ask: What

does it mean to be rootless? Roots are good to use as

toothpicks. You: How can you wake in the middle of

a life? We shut and open our eyes like the sun shining

on tossed pennies in a forgotten well. Bald copper,

blood. Yu choy bolts                  into roses down here.

While you were sleeping, we woke to the old leaves

of  your backyard shed and ate that and one of your

lost flip-flops too. In a future life, we saw rats overtake

a supermarket with so much milk, we turned opaque.

We wake to something boiling. We wake to wash dirt

from lettuce, to blossom into your face. Aphids along

the lashes. Little girl, don’t forget              to take care

of  the chickens, squawking in their mess and stench.

Did our mouths buckle                                at the sight

of  you devouring slice                after slice of  pizza and

the greasy box too? Does this frontier swoon for you?

It’s time to wake up. Wake the tapeworm who loves

his home. Wake the ants,                  let them do-si-do

a spoonful of  peanut butter. Tell us, little girl, are you

hungry, awake,                               astonished enough?