The Poet

Hello friends welcome to my poetry book
I write in lace and blood-stained panties
A free-bleeder with words and unrestrained lube-coated fingers
I have pride about my infertile uterus and unabashed shoulders
I have legs spread for all to revere

What even is a female poet but a
Skinny thought wrestler who plays with contexts or perhaps
An uninhabited life jacket suggesting trauma?
Even walking becomes quite pretentious so
I won’t even begin to talk about what comes of
My audiences

When did uncooked spaghetti become so metaphorically phallic
I want to boil them soft and
Stir the pot with my hands
You can laugh your cream puff laughter or joke about the lack of cutlery
But who’s wearing the chef’s hat here?

They say I ask real questions but
To be honest I am just an expert heifer who
Regurgitates really neatly into anglophone categories
Perfect finger food squares to be served alongside cheap wine
Zoom out your lenses and you will find my pen
As mass-produced as any other

Here, like this:
Welcome to my Asian supermarket!
Here we evoke nostalgia of diasporic peoples in suburban London and
Make cultural variations and politics palatable to the general audience
Assertive enough to inspire keyboard solidarity but
Never radical enough to spark
A Real Revolution

So I still run away to Europe during summers and
Cook pre-cut boneless chicken filets in Airbnb’s with
Overpriced soy sauce
Distance cultivates appetite and I become
A ready voyeur at touchdown
Even before the wheels come to a halt I had already
Taken pictures of dusty streets

But if Rupi can rake in the money with line breaks and
Taylor’s feminism can inspire naïve joy
Maybe I still qualify as underground music
So listen. When the curtains are drawn, remember
I am a spectacle and all of you losers are
Invited to the show

Artwork by Valerie Belin “Black Eyed Susan II” 2013

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