Origami/ unfolding before

Tell the moon to stop and you know
what will come. Nothing. My body
is monument. My body is monkey born. Tell
the body to stop pretending it is still

in the midst of being :: monkey-child
among the madness and it will bare its teeth
at you. Gaze at the fangs if you will. The ones
that glisten in the moonfire that slants

through rifts in the window blinds. Tell
me your stories, says the body, and I’ll
turn them to something like living fable. Mad
simian rage, packaged neatly in a body

you can’t move.

Author's Note

2021