The Chance of You Asking My Name is Declining by the Second by Iduna Paalman


You can guarantee the police search your coat when you’ve got
     nothing to say. Set your face
to dead calm staying silent, your unloaded arms by your sides.
     Being slammed to the ground
can also be a way of satisfying certain physical needs.

What I’ve stolen or been dealing, white or the colour of the
     pavement, well you tell me.
What I share, which parts of me provide you with a whole, the proof
still in my back pocket, at home an overblown tulip over the edge
of the chair, which form of notation, which order, you tell me.

If we’re talking about bodies: they function alright but don’t change
with the seasons. Does being special mean that people think about
     you at night?
Is there anyone who wants to think about me at night?

Do you know how many men select more attractive genitals, put
     them on their
own body, bathroom or cat behind them, that’s called the sharing
     economy, huge numbers
of clicks apparently. In principle you could lay claim to me, give me
first your jokes, then your indifference

then the question whether I want to bite back, even without arrest.
     A snarl
can be heard in the sound of your car starting, but something still
     slumbers between us. Are
you in any way prepared, I think as I turn around, to continue
     watching as I unzip my
jacket, to investigate which laws you think I might be breaking?

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