The Kookaburra

By Pleco Philodendron

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I hear her when she’s lurking, an anklet

And toe rings, and I smell it in her hair—

The ring around the toilet bowl, the sink,

The fringe of offset yellows that creep

Up the shower coverings, the safari

In her sheets. I imagine breathing hot

Inflammatorily through the nostrils

Flaring snot since the nose is pressed

Against the skull too closely, the sheen

Of wiping on the sleeve, the food caught

In the dales of her chins’ multiplicities:

What refuge does her body give

In the dives and delves of fat’s forgiving

Slots, the crevasses filled sweaty hot

That serve as refuge for shigella, lint,

Or Cheeto dust and soursop, an ecosystem

In several spots that could proof dough

If left to afterthought—a subtle stink of durian,

Papaya, perforated perinea, a portable potty,

Uncooked broccoli, brown and soft, forgotten

In the crisper, remembered thirty days

After being bought. Her body is a festival

And the attendants are all cannibals

at an apocalyptic carnival—all the bleach

that hotels use to whiten sheets, autoclaves

and alcohol, polyquats, peroxide, heat

or sunshine can’t divide the colonies

that hitch a ride in every pore her makeup hides. 

“Imagine being me,” she cries, tears filling her eyes,

The olfactory glands assaulted from the breath

On which her wording slides; I can’t even think.

Nor would I want to put my mind through trauma

Any more than passing her stink. Empathy

Should be mutual, so pity is what I greet when

This bird who’s all cloaca arrives upon the scene. 

And all the imagination that she asks me to bring

Could not usurp the odor of this richly scented queen.