after Remedios Varo
insert straws into fruits and flowers,
drink the lifeblood of a watermelon,
a tomato, a five-petaled rose.
Their faces appear as expressionless
as businessmen
about to go under; their new suits
woven from subsidized chaffs of wheat,
are already frayed at the knees.
From underneath twin bowler hats
flash enormous golden ear wings.
Perhaps they are listening to a botanist’s
lament for the dying or to the rap of lemon thyme.
Perhaps they’ve arrived too late to save the world’s
gardens. Still, we will stage protests
in alliance with their waves of grain.
Underneath the vampires’ barstools
two pet roosters laze about, their combs and wattles
luminous— their speckled collars
hand-carved from the finest melon skins.
