in low light, a hand holds a rose. the rose is on fire!

Pop CultureJanuary 31, 2025

The Friday Poem: ‘Quiet Delicate Wednesday Afternoon’ by Joshua Toumu’a

in low light, a hand holds a rose. the rose is on fire!

A new poem by Joshua Toumu’a.

Quiet Delicate Wednesday Afternoon

after my Spotify Daylist

It’s a Wednesday morning and I’m growing roses on my HOA lawn instead of grass.
The ceiling is illuminated by hundreds of paper lanterns
and when I draw the curtains to my already open windows
they fly into the mid-winter air. Every morning I
harvest rose thorns to eat like cashews at my day job and
every evening I return to my house ablaze. The neighbours
hate me but can do nothing about it. I throw a house party
in the smouldering ruins every weekday and
every weekend I listen to the Vengaboys from 4 in the morning ‘til
2 in the morning while renovating the living room with jackhammers.
By Sunday evening the house will be as good as new, and now even more 1950s.
pastel pink lead paint, venetian glass bricks for bathroom walls, asbestos curtains.
Several murder attempts have been made by the neighbours
however I’ve wised up to their tricks. I no longer accept their
lemonade; I’m microdosing rat poison until I’m ready to attend
their picnics and drink the whole pitcher without flinching.
Last Monday I awoke to find both my waterbed and I at the bottom of the everglades.
They must have thought it to be an air mattress, as I did not travel nearly as far
as I could have. It will take a lot more than that to get rid of me
(I breathe water and air like a mudskipper). I return home on a chariot pulled
by several American alligators and crocodiles carrying a lit torch in a bedsheet toga.
Like a Viking burial, a shoot a flaming arrow out the carriage window
into my not-smouldering, not-ablaze 1950s home to ensure
I keep up with my weekly quota. I arrive at the office,
drenched in mud and rotting plant matter. My coworkers hate me, too.
They try to dox me, but my house has already been destroyed by
rampant fires and partygoers. They settle for regular violence instead,
engaging in fist fights in the break room every 15-20 minutes. I win
every time, so they pit me against a stronger and stronger manager
until I’ve fought my way through the entire Paper Plus. I ascend to
near-godhood (Regional Manager) and begin construction of the
Tower of Babel 2 with guidance from several linguists and the
guys who built the Reading Cinema in Wellington. It reaches
to the heavens, and atop it I find heaven and it is
earthquake-prone. I fall more storeys than I can count; the fall is hours long.
I cannot say I feel remorse on the way down. It’s quiet.

The Friday Poem is brought to you by Nevermore Bookshop, home of kooky, spooky romance novels and special edition book boxes. Visit Nevermore Bookshop today.

The Friday Poem is edited by Hera Lindsay Bird. Submissions are currently closed.

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