Weekend Cucumber Affairs
“I have pores like orange peels,”
“I’m a trypophobic”
I like to crunch the seeds in my apple
With my teeth,
The silicone on my fingertips
Resembles his blood beard
On a clarion Sunday.
That Sunday, unlike all the other
Sundays that habitually ends with flapper girls
Licking your fingers
There were cucumbers
Carved into hollow canoes of verdant skins
Decaying in window light
On the table that significant afternoon,
When the grandfather clock
Sung its ballad of Vladimir Lenin
Each hour I waited for your arrival
And his body stayed whist in glass
A garden full of plastic knives
In my back
Like a backpack.
I’m a schoolgirl riding a bicycle
Stuck up like a field of ripe tomatoes tied to sticks
My meticulously calculated
Exponential growth chart
Of the woman across the street inching
To her mailbox with a walker.
Butternut toffee dust
In amidships of cucumber canoes
From desolate breakfasts.
Twisted door knobs,
Smelly garbage bags,
Windows of school girls riding bicycles.
The Stoned Ape
A desolate African savanna
awaits a fiery pulse.
But on all ape tongues speckled
caps dissolve like sugar,
in the sun’s hearty heat.
The apes, now dancing naked,
chant at the crows.
The crows alarmed
at the sight,
Tuck their coal
from the threat
of vast abyssal eyes.
the trance and the peril.
balance on two.
This, the design of
a treacherous program.
and sleep with leisurely will.
Obey at each impulse.
discipline, an esoteric figment.
Do they know the
between want and
is to drink?
Is to fuck?
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
To want: is to dream?
Is to fuck?
Where the elements exist
As only themselves,
or as symbols of
Such a playful
Existing or not
Fruition of consciousness
takes diligent work and care.
Evolution is pain
Growth is pain.
When capable of conception,
When I was young, I watched the clouds change color and reduce to silver mist.
Before they disappeared, the shapes would shift into dancing caricatures and smiles,
wearing my furry brow and parched lips. It was an aurora affair my forbearers have
seen through the decades and I finally witnessed. —Currently, my forever seems
daunting. With each breath I count the seconds of my exhale, multiplying them,
dividing them, then adding them all back together so I can feel once more.
Youngness, infiniteness, love galore. —I find new warts on my fingers each morning.
My achy desires find fruition through my skin. Profound as that colorful sky,
As ordinary as a bed sheet drying on a line.
Emily Janik graduated from Eastern Michigan University in December 2019 with a B.A. in Creative Writing.