pikachu slaps pikachu
in the face, both entirely
flowering with tears, as
one says pikachu, arms
thrown back like a wishbone,
as the other says pikachu,
head heavy and lips
parted. it’s too easy to say
that i am the pikachu being
struck, that i am the way
they fall and roll like
a wound and stand to say,
pikachu, which means,
i am sorry you are capable
of hurting me. it’s too easy
to say that i am the one
doing the striking, that
i am the static between them,
or the sky above drawn by hand
and unbeautiful, as the striker says
pika, the chu silent, to mean, i have nothing
left beneath my hands. the scene
tattooed on the place where
the crater of my childhood meets
the bloom of my childhood.
which reminds me of how you
can prevent your pokémon from
evolving, as the exit wound of light
expands, the music hearting
like a drum, the text box reading
What? or Huh? as if every trans
formation were the first, like
how i, as a child, studying in
the bathroom how many faces
my face could make, how many
meanings my body could have, as
the struck says chu, the pika
silent, to mean there is nothing left
beneath my hands. my hands
on my mouse, my face flattened by
the computer screen, as i cry
scrolling google images, having searched
“trans pikachu” and, yes, found her,
a heart taped to her tail, which is
not a metaphor, her mouth
open and the only word she knows
is her word, the word she is, which
means everything she means, her
pink tongue, and her right
paw pointing toward her tail,
her left holding it in front
of her, and my computer always
with its soft murmur, that
exhale of its labor, its warm body,
which means nothing other than
i am working, i am
working, i am working, i am
an object made to make
other objects, which is not
a metaphor, and the wall
behind me is blued by
the making, and through my
window, a thunderstorm reaches
its hands to the ground like
a metaphor and, of course,
the rain repeating the name
of the sky
