Helen Guri

Why is it best to make her orange and so hourglassed
she’s abstract—a Matisse nude composed of Goodyear blimps
in formation?

If what I’ve evolved to crave is Fanta’s antigravity,
sickle edge of sundown, the colour of night vision,
marshmallow-broil. If what I’ve evolved to lift
is the weightless barbell of a cartoon circus.

Wearing orange jeans, teens out at dusk
blush Venus, leak their Crush sodas on pavement.
They keep their synapses
limber with self-tanner.

If living is one long over-exposure:
the teacher’s silk kerchief, a meatloaf’s Florida sheen,
ladybug piss on a skinny wrist,
a dinner plate’s explosive Frisbee.

Moreover: that old sorrel named Bliss,
the weekly Lutheran basements
with paper walls. Where wax crayons labelled Goldenrod
blistered as skin—what a rib shimmied into
to be more comfortable.

Fly me to the moon, sings the hot air balloon,
and so my makeshift drifting furnace
feeds, breathes vermillion.