All the jobs I’ve ever had
have involved watering some fountain.
“You’re useful,” the mosquito insists.
I dump orange juice
into the garden.
“It’s cleansing,” sighs the earthworm, sizzling.
Upworthy demands I pick a favourite egg.
Let’s have it all be over. Easy.
“I’ve met worse,” consoles the false black widow.
I trip on the sidewalk and distort
“Maybe get it together a bit,” warns the deer tick.
That being sad,
the child in the ice cream shop,
announcing to his friends,
I want to be the messiest.
I am made of chocolate.
Simina Banu is a Canadian poet. She is an outsider investigator of the oddities that inhabit the English language—from its strange punctuation, to its accidental musicality, to its meanings, unconfined by the structure of words, wandering and irretrievable. Her poetry has been featured in journals such as In/Words Magazine, untethered, and Otoliths. In 2015, words(on)pages press published her first chapbook, where art. She is currently pursuing an MA in English at the University of Windsor.