Pick me, pick me, poem by Michele Battiste

I’m the best one. Trust
me. I’m obsessed
with truth. Like this: the shakuhachi is an end-blown
Japanese flute used as a tool for meditation. Never mind
the butter stain on my blouse, I’m sparkling
like a new espresso machine and just
as potent. Breathe me, I’m brewing and the steam
swhistles across your chest, condensing.
Collect it, boil it down like sap to syrup but I bruise
easy, like royalty, like a ripe pear but pretty like a storm cloud fat
with lightning. I’m tingly with surplus electrons, an electric eel eaten
by a cat and the cat’s possessed, but sleepy. The best kind
of cat – all potential.

Hear that? My heady minor notes, my B-flat osmotic
process of cauterizing misfired fine wires. Snap snapsnap.
Sometimes I panic but (shhh).
My catastrophes are restless but well-paced
and sun-spotted, rarely overexcited the way I get overexcited
about sweets like buttercream frosting and meringue. It’s true.
I’m sweet like the sweet hummingbirds chase but not spoiled.
Sometimes dead things smell sweet, but my blood
is buzzing; my energy field stings even masters of Reiki
but I don’t participate. They just can’t keep their greedy
reach restrained around me.

I could keep still if I wanted but all gods
are cagey – bared teeth and strange threatened
sounds. Temples have been constructed
for less. Pick me. I have almonds and poppies.
I won’t last long at all.