what it takes to fill a chile and make it relleno
alice in concrete jungle
open flame, the sun
flutters atop
a raccoon, smush
on pavement, intestines
sway in the breeze like ivy
clings to the sky. an ambulance
dodges the remains, in figure
skater leisure, silent sirens a dull
plasticky glow, red that glints
when the sun hits
just right, no spinning. yet
a body, still,
stretched out, propped
up in the rear he
can watch the world
in the wrong direction,
dried orange leaves
sneak back into their trees,
the sun spins
into yesterday,
the raccoon sucks
in its stomach. chile relleno
not yet stuffed, lies
on the stove top, open flame,
once red now smolder, funeral
pyre, when it is done
yellowed fingers,
whose nails blacken
as they fill with ash,
slowly peel off the chile’s
slimy red skin, scoop
out its innards and pour in
whatever. the man
in the ambulance, jaundiced—
his head pinballs, his jaw droops
away from the road toward grass,
maybe a bed
of leaves and flower
petals, his mouth
an iris, his tongue
the stigma or the optic
nerve, o, O, O, like smoke
rings. who are you, absolem
breathes into the man and raccoon,
both drowned in raindrops
and intestines. the man cannot
eat from the mushroom to grow,
but the raccoon becomes filling,
he withers away in the chile,
licks a match like a lollipop
and sets himself aflame
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