I found you again, reincarnated into a baby seagull. Every day she
waits under my building, calling upward, squatting on a
homeless-proof wooden bench. You never waited: you screamed and
screamed and screamed until you had what you wanted. What would
you have to say about our Narcissus? I’m still living in your echo
living inside my phone. A year after I was born, a bisexual man leaped
from a building in Hong Kong. There is a bench for him in
my city. The bench sees the ocean where your tree sees a stream.
Four years later we took you in.
You hated the outside. I’m haunted by how much
I learned from you. My new lover has not yet a name,
but all of them have met me in your darling shadow. In the past
awareness month I didn’t go out. I want to live in your death
even though I told the undergrad girls you were okay. I
never told you how, to me, kiki sounds like a girl cat’s name
in Mandarin. You’d be very genderfucking in Vancouver.
This bisexuality awareness day, month, and week, I want
to be a squirrel under your paw. A mouse in a trapbox
crows toy with behind the gym. A flower on the tree
we buried you in.