Hal Y. Zhang is a tinkerer of things. She is online at halyzhang.com.
The lump on the back of my skull is not
draining and I fancied it might sprout flowers,
nice-smelling ones if I’m lucky, a narcissus
bulb stitching delicate white interlace and the smallest
yellow trumpets. I’d need a hat to shade it from the
sun, perhaps a crocodile funerary mesh for good
omens, and when the well-meaners pry I’ll break into
tears, saving them on the menisci of my nails to
sprinkle over the long finger leaves at my earliest
convenience. Are you glistening, I’d subvocalize
to my lovely parasite, who already knows how to
ask for more by straining its fine net of roots
through my important parts.