grant application

after bell hooks & takmametok

The committee of men nods thoughtfully as I beg them
to let me adorn their mausoleums with my scattered limbs.
In the seminar I haphazardly gather the land in a ziplock bag:
orange peels grandfather ate on the train
to stave motion sickness. Father’s coarse hair. The tooth
they just extracted from my mouth because
it was intent on mislaying itself.
This is the archive: sticky remnants that cling
to wrapping paper adorned in mother tongue,
a suitcase full of beautiful garbage I want to bury myself in.
I know I am Tibetan because I do not want to answer your email.
Do not eat me—my veins are lined with red dye 40.
I promise you, I am such an interesting thing.