My Gift

I run around the block eating an orange & drop

its rind in continents on concrete. This is my gift

to the suburb, which told me not to burn logs

when the air quality is marked yellow. My dog

chases me around the block barking & a woman

yells from her portrait window she could sue me

for not using a leash. My phone reminds me to take

a shower, so I do. It's not that I'm dirty, it's that

I'd rather stay in bed wearing fur, watching

documentaries about Dior. I apologize to no one

while scrubbing my scalp until it bleeds. I know

what it is to stare at yourself in a shattered mirror

& not remember if it was you who broke it.

I wanted to see if I could mine my body for rubies

& look, I can! I write a letter & don't send it:

Here is a book & a ruby. One from my body,

the other I made after a fit with a pen. Both

worth nothing, but I like the thought of a man

picking them up & holding them in his hands.

Source: Lima :: Limón (2019)