Victoria Cho
A cat crawls into the crevice underneath the furnace
The lumberjack’s fingers detect his toes
He sits at a kitchen table sculpted from his childhood trees
I stand by the furnace
The cat licks my heel
The lumberjack asks which path I took to his home
I speak of silence and divulge hints of tissue paper butterflies
We clasp hands and march into a field of fallow daisies
He smells of caraway seeds and my embarrassment
Aliens frequent my land, he says
I wish I didn’t know the meaning of the word regret
The absence of daisies trampled by my feet
An alien slithers down my throat and corners my spleen
When I close my eyes, I hear sincerity in the lumberjack’s voice
I see his orchestrated gestures
I am the target of his loathing
I am a body of fundamental properties and beguiling elements
The lumberjack sings of his youth and touches my wrists
An attempt to induce sleep in me
I sprint towards the river bloated with mosquitoes
When I kneel, I can’t remember
If the position is for sorrow or surrender