Convert

By Virginia Konchan

So much of life is utter bullshit.
I say this as someone who used
to foot the bill, lead the charge.
In my recurring dream of unpaid
prostitution, I only realize I was
exploited when I’ve already fled
the scene. Give me my labor back,
the blank space where life should be.
I’m half–drunk on gin, writing in tears.
Translate me, and don’t translate me.
A faithful translation is one in which
the translator’s hand never appears.
Do you remember when I used to be
confident and adventurous? Vaguely,
watercolor stain on a concave mirror.
The wolves of obsolescence are hungry.
See you soon: a euphemism for get lost.
Nature tries to recall our higher selves,
but we’re too busy valorizing business.
The mountain stands tall, mountaining.
The deer adopts a specie not her own.
My dislikes are many, affinities few:
I like songs to which I can sing along,
my family, and solfeggio frequencies.
Alone, loneliness is never a thought
until intercepted by a rattling door,
the odor of a man. No woman needs
intercourse: few women escape it.
Thankfully, I’m a vegetarian now.
Then there’s language over there,
failed enterprise. You can’t eat it,
you can’t fuck it, it’s not beautiful.
And yet, like a cosmos, it survives.