Kind of feels like three Philips Hue light bulbs
flickering on and off in different colors
like that banned Pokemon episode
that gave children seizures
but no one died I hope
because under this spasm of lights
controlled by a tap on a color wheel
on a smartphone
to a digital clock’s unseen ticking,
it feels like my time of dying.
Mouse clicking and laughter come from
a lover who games like dinner isn’t just
fifteen minutes around the corner,
head nodding under noise cancelling headphones,
fingers tapping at the keyboard of Alienware whose fans spin
louder than the clang
of clothing in the drying machine
softer than the buzz of electricity those bulbs
send my neuron to synapse to neuron,
frozen hands rubbing my frozen feet.
Like sleep seeps into your bones as you stare upward
because it’s a surrender to shut your eyes
the windows already shield against smoke,
just words and pictures left, inhibited by blue light,
gleaming and chanting and suddenly you’re dying
under heavy down covers with frozen feet, frozen hands.
Lucy Zhang 