If I trust my head. Twisted
vines creep to an unreachable
sun but knowledge sits in roots
tangled, knotted in biased hugs.
Amber words dissolve in a salty
river where flames steal my bark
and flesh. I swing between birds,
or are they stationary fish? See
my body lost in glass ferns,
too fragile to free.
If I trust my heart. Violent
spirits shake yellow chrysanthemums
growing from my chest. Soft painted
jealousy flirts with earnest rage. I bow
to reason without a compass — east
knows no submission. I try to lose
myself in hopeless desire
already lost in autumn showers.
If I trust my gut. Careless fingers push
an empty stomach to pluck
lucky entrails. A hunch ripped
from home finds solace in another,
led astray. Artless foretelling,
foreshadowing from shaken bone
and divine intestine. I cannot
feel this flesh that is not mine.
An omen,
if I trust myself.