Milton Wong: “Heat Injury En Route to the Bus Stop”
I’d been anticipating heat death but not like this. Now I am the egg on tar, which I remember being laid, the tar, just when I started to believe we were yoked to the great trees before our flat. We swung from their vines once, the trees, back from nowhere. Then hatted men cut them down. With them, the trees, or the construction sites, no one knows, we lost the good dogs too. Or were they put down, no one knows. No one thinks of the abandoned and wild. We must imagine the grass frogs in drains now, and happy. I go on a walk to assert myself with the trees as cousins of the same make, but they are all distanced two meters apart, of the same make. If we are truly of the same sawdust then perhaps I am, too, distanced equidistantly, from the orange beast, huge and docile and mute behind glass. That’s fake, you say, to the orangutan. That’s fake.Milton Wong (he/him) is the author of for now, new york:. He also writes on miltonwong.substack.com
