Paper Tiger

The strangest part was cutting out the fingers. Using my hands to make my hands. I felt a real sense of fragility as I cut the rounded fragments of my pinkies, dipped the paper in the glue mix, and formed them around a blown-up glove.

I looked the papier mâché version of myself in the eyes and said to it, “thank you for being so patient.” Its hollow face just kept staring off into the distance, a slight smirk across its paper lips.

I finished the final touches and dressed it like myself. I gave it black jeans and a random t-shirt, placed its arms through the sleeves of my favorite black hoodie.

I taught him how to walk, then I taught him how to run (I wanted him to be safe in case of an emergency) and after a long day of human lessons, I took him home and I taught him how to dance. That was by far the best part. I asked him if he’d be willing to put on an Earth, Wind & Fire record, and he agreed to, and we danced around the living room to “September”. My feet stomping around the wooden floors, his whole being light as air. He was a terrible dancer, but in the same way that so many of us are.

Throughout the fall, I integrated him into my social circles. Sent him to parties when I was home, sick in bed. He mostly took the bus from place to place. We tried driving but it was very stressful. He didn’t need to eat or sleep, but I still made a nice bed for him on the couch each night where he could rest, or at least not have to be so concerned with doing things for a while. I felt like I’d appreciate that opportunity.

One morning in winter, we put on our jackets and walked around the park. I told him I was leaving the next day. I told him it was too much for me. All of this performance, all of this being. I told him I had bought a plane ticket and a ride to the wilderness of Alaska. That I had a trailer there with all that I would need. I told him I didn’t intend to come back. I knew it was dark up there, but that is what I wanted for now. I need a kind of incubation. I need a space of unlearning. He nodded.

The next day, I was gone. I wondered if he set an alarm without me. I wondered what he did first that first morning. I arrived at Denver International Airport before the sun rose. I looked around at all of the people, buying a bagel, or purchasing some dozy medicine for a long flight, waiting in line for the restroom. They all seemed so resolute in their doing. I looked down at my hand, and I swear my hand looked like it was made of paper.

Catalog of Flowers

A flower on fire in an otherwise dark mind.

A flower like a thought, like ice cream.

A flower spread out in petals across a street,
trampled by tires and time.

A flower in black hair besides black pupils
that churn your bright colors back into you.

A dead flower in a jacket pocket.

A flower inside the mouth of a bird.

A flower in a drawer in a desk.

A flower amongst a dozen flowers
swept up into a hurricane like a refugee,
unaware where it will land but left with no choice
but to be lifted until the fall.

A flower pinned on a wall like a butterfly.

A flower once white smeared by smoke.

The flower that dies first.

The flower that lives last.

A flower that never was gifted.

A flower that lived its whole life unseen
by sunlight.
Unpicked, loved, disregarded,
left to be.

A flower inside of a flower inside of a flower.

A flower sucked under the waves.

A flower floating in hot water.

A flower that sees itself in the mirror.

A flower like a country at war.

A flower in a bouquet in a peace parade.

A flower like the wrinkles between your fingers.

A flower inside of a human mouth.

A flower like strewn-out jazz momentum dissipated
into wisps of smoke and blown caustic like a ticking time
bomb left laughing in a hotel room.

A flower behind a counter that can’t decide if it’s bitter
or sweet.

A flower that collects your rainwater.

A flower that whistles in the wind, a flower
that decided not to.

A mean flower. A painted flower. A frozen flower.

A flower that comes to your window.

A flower tied to a balloon tied to the sky.

A flower that grows wild on the wrong side of
a mountain.

A flower that hangs by the wrist from the rafters.

A flower like a church bell.

A flower like a hail storm.

A flower the shape of Venezuela, the shape of
clouds, the shape of thoughts, the shape of destruction,
of retribution, of justice, of conviction in the name of
eating itself.

A flower that folds into its own petals.

A flower that flicks at the spokes of a bike tire.

A flower that lives between sunlight and stained glass.

Menace flower. Death flower. Archaic flower.
Witch flower. Green flower. Smoke flower.
Hell flower. Heal flower. No flower.

A flower that blooms for its own shadow.

A flower that so desperately wants to be a flower,
so mesmerized by itself, by its weight, by the ways in which
the green leaves bend.

A flower that thinks it can swallow the sun,
and the flowers that lean in to watch what happens.

and i open another door and

and i open another door and it’s a door
it’s just a door behind the door and it’s
locked

           and i open another door and
           it’s you and you’re slipping out
           of my hoodie and my heart
           is a strike-anywhere match
           and you are the anywhere
           that i am striking against

and i open another door
and there is an opera in
the snowfall and a man
who sings like an angel
pulls out a gun and fires
like the devil himself
and i catch the bullet
between my teeth.

           and i open another door and it’s a cartoon train but i
           close the door and the train is not so cartoon when it
           comes through and tackles me like a buffalo that has
           been fed hunger and when i wake up i am sore every
           where and at the foot of my bed is a buffalo bleeding
           out and i cannot find the room where i keep my tears
           with all of these doors these doors forever

and i
i open
another door and
there
there beyond the door is god
and god is all like

hey
you’re just gonna keep writing me
into all of these poems, huh?
and i say to god

                      yes.
                      if you’ll keep having me.

and god says
you know that it was me
who killed the buffalo
and it was me who fired the gun
and it was me
and it was me

           and i says to god, listen
           i know it wasn’t you and
           you can’t be a martyr
           forever and i says to god
           you know who it was who
           killed the buffalo and who
           fired the gun

           it was men who were too
           afraid that if they open
           another door, it would be
           you that they saw.

November 23, 2022

About the writer

Brice Maiurro is a poet from Lakewood, Colorado. He is the author of Stupid Flowers. He is also the host of Snap! Crackle! Poetry! a monthly morning poetry open mic at Mutiny Info Cafe. You can find more about him at maiurro.co.