I.
Pudgal, my grandmother explained, is the matter that sticksto your soul when you do a bad thing.Cloistered in the sunlight, stippled skin gleamingDidi probably has a lot of pudgal, my brother said. Fat soul.Bad girl. He smacked my handI scrubbed the beet on my brother’s mouth, clotted red and glamorousWhere are all the decaying esters?
II.
Didi. Didi Kong. Diddy Kong. He plays Patience on the bed,his back digging into mine, dealing the cards for no oneThe cards fan out on a citrus islandEsters scenting curtainsOnce I powdered his cheeks with stolen blushEsters within a grandmother’s perfume bottle from 1949Esters hydrolyzing into smuggled CirocUneaten, the last whorl of the sun
III.
Shorty can you hear me? Can you read my essay?The whirring of an uneasy heart rotating clockwiseA bird crushed under a pedaling wheelOur aloe vera plant on the balcony is fat with glossI slice the limb, balm for his smoked palmEsters fumigating monsoon boatsAs peacocks sprint across the lawn,Chalky froth sublimates his oval train setLustrous with acetate.
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