A Chance of Pineapple Rain

Design by Miya Zhao

after Chungking Express (1994)

This morning, I stumbled into an airport 
as the leaves browned themselves a new 
season. I was running from a storm. 

It blew through the city’s gums—
pineapple cans flossed 
across clotheslines, casting Kowloon in a sweet-
sticky glaze. Mansions awash in a gulf
of expiration labels. & suddenly, 
every crushed windowpane spilled
the same acid melody: May 1st 
fanning over bunk-bed dreams like 
a prophetic Rolodex. 

Confession: I may or may not have started 
the deluge. I, the original perpetrator—
a self-destructive weatherman 
or weather-god—loading pineapple 
cans in a lightning rod aimed 
for the sky. See, the truth 
is that the other woman’s wig 
only covered up my grief in a couple 
blonde strands. I watched her sleep 
on a hotel mattress, settle into Hollywood 
static: an image 
of an image. 
Hollow xerox distorting intimacy. 

The truth is that I was still waiting
for you to call me back. So I left
the bed. I cast all my unanswered 
love into a can, held its moonish shadow 
in my palms & threw it. The sky grew long 
with syruped tides, roiling over in all 
my twilight desire. Desire so full 
the whole city had to bear its flooding.

I was trying to spoil the possibility 
of expiration. Even in this airport terminal,
I am still trying to stick time in a bed 
of pineapple glaze. 

If only the expiration label grew 
another month. If only a plane 
could fly without wings.

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