today i collected apple seeds for their cyanide
and put them in a bowl i stole from the kitchen.
i pushed my head to the ground and waited
for God to give me a pestle, be a receptacle
for my death. i wanted a glimpse of heaven,
for one moment i wanted to step off the dirt
and raise my calf past all the mountains
and scream at the things i left behind.
even though i walked a different route
i always saw the abandoned trains. they
passed their time standing on the tracks
and the graffiti was ugly just to me.
the graffiti was the nighttime and smoke,
the graffiti was the cat-stench and hands,
and it was the yellow feeling of heat, of
skin and hair and breathing.
he never said anything to me and i wish
he said something to me so i wouldn’t
try to stuff his voice in every mouth and
it’s easier to forget that than to forget.
this week i think i’ve prayed too much
and maybe He found the pipe to his ear
and pulled it out. if now i’m talking to
oblivion, i hope when it happens
i won’t know anything. i want to crumble
into detritus and then dust but screw dust
because i don’t want holes on my body,
because i don’t want the insides to slip out.
i lift my head from the dust to my mother who
takes the bowl and scatters the apple seeds.
your dinner’s been waiting, she tells me.
which, i’m sure, is another way to love me.
Lachlan Chu is a Californian youth poet whose work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, the Bay Area Creative Foundation, KALW, and Narrative Magazine, among others. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Nightjar Magazine, among others. He serves as editor-in-chief for The Acedian Review.