A Future History

A muster of peacocks show off their tails, but instead of feathers, knives. And smoke where their voices should be. I breathe gray until it fills my throat, choking on tulle. On the loudspeaker, a mutation of a voiceover, a headache of endearment to remind me where I came from, smokestack cities in jungle greens. Petals are pinned in place on flowers by careful tailors, muted peals ringing in my ears. A headdress of gold and pink weighs me down, an obscene affection from country and kind. I have never been novel, but in the days of impending volcanos, I walk throwback, the doyenne of novices. An enemy feints indifference and keeps their distance, places me on a fool’s throne. They underestimate me—I am the same bitch in a new wig, a mutineer in a tight dress. I dig my nails into the peel of a granadilla, peel back, and bite.