277/365

i watch whales on my phone
through an instagram account
of ocean life. the floating breeching
giants attuned to a heartbeat
i’d be wise to set my metronome to.

i have two crocus sativus flowers
as my screen saver- all of their
delicate parts brashly displayed
without fear or judgement:
peduncle. receptacle. sepal. petals.
stamen. anther. pistil. stigma. ovaries.
erotic in their shamelessness-
orange. golden yellow. red. lavender.
symbols of my otherness.

“if you eat too much saffron
you will die from laughter.”
we’re handcuffed to folklore
shared in passing.
i can still see a pestle in her hand
cooking in our kitchen, a tepid cup of tea,
always an arm’s reach away,
a mortar waiting for a gentle pounding.
she- little more than a stranger
i watched television with-
an anchor to an ancestry
my new passport would force me to ignore.

there is little evidence of expiring through hysterics,
but at higher doses there can be reduced
platelet count and spontaneous bleeding.
i wonder how many tons of saffron it would take
to force a pair off humpbacks to paint the oceans red.

distractions are necessary
when enslaved by screens.
 
i want to rub the petals of a real flower
between my fingers, swallowing bushelfuls
daring my heart to make the necessary platelets
to swim, laughing, into a whale’s gullet,
so she might carry me home.

217/365

exhausted by the burden of convenience.
all things instant. produced. packaged.
empty.
delivered right to your door.
made to order.
just add water.

image: (saffron with sugar granules for resistance
in a mortar and pestle. slowly.
tender attention to the familiar aroma.
letting it seep into the water,
then the boiling sugar syrup and rose water.)

image: (risen dough, punched down and floured.
like a baby’s thigh powdered and pliant.
rolled and boiled and baked.)

what use is another privileged bourgeois
poem in all this noise?
complaining about convenience of all things.

image: (a girl aged twelve walking barefoot
on hot red gravel, a thorny acacia in the distance,
a baby on her back and a yellow gerry can
on her head, filled with twenty gallons of dirty water.
kilometres to go yet, to reach home.)

exhausted by the burden of.