Uma Jagwani

the fifth season

some people died.
some people dyed their hair.
i am a pizza-flavored shape
with a mask on.
& a local philosophy
fuckboy says:
we were overpopulated, anyway.
& just like that—
we were falsely liberated.
i got over my zoom class crush
in exactly three weeks,
& someone private messaged me,
asking me if i was stoned,
& i said no i’m just Like That.
& maybe this is a spite
poem for a pandemic, the fifth
season, of sour summers,
signing off emails as,
very much alive comma
(name)
then months later as
somewhat alive comma
(name)
for a while, all things were
death-shaped objects.
dead leaves are the only 
death that doesn’t disturb the living.
i became the same as
a non-microwavable plate:
partly useful, mostly decorative.
then months later signing off as

almost alive comma
(name) if i 
reply to any email at all &
all that’s left of me is a thin crust
& i’m losing faith in leaves growing back
in the fifth season,
we’re living
an almost life & we keep signing off
Like That.

“I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom”

—Mrs. George, Mean Girls

i feed myself lugaw & get a whiff of mom.

after this, i’m going to hit this pipe & watch hentai.

oof. sorry, mom.

i’ll come over & make you lugaw as long

as you don’t comment on my instagram with under-

boob, okay? cool. i knew you were cool.

i knew

you were cool, mom, you always said don’t

get pregnant but you never taught me how

only that i shouldn’t & to do that

i should make sure his mushroom has a

raincoat. yeah that’s the tip

i was looking for. thanks.

thanks for the credit

card, too. i can buy this piece 

of plastic, with this

piece of plastic. you know what plasticity means, mom?

of course you do. you know everything.

well i learned about it the other day, 

& i’d say wrinkled babies that exit vaginas 

are the same thing.

you had fun doing that, didn’t you mom? you never wanted

me to be a right angle,

you wanted me to be a curve, like a

parabola, like the u in the first letter of my name &

i hated math but i love u & entropy, and the

pancakes you made every sunday.

you used to put me in the shower & play

Growing Flower, pour water on me from

a green watering can, & i would slowly rise.

i grew into cleanliness, graduated from

Mama’s University, &

i still think of plasticity,

the way you prepared me to calculate

for entropy: make sure the stove’s off,

the shaft is covered, make sure

to blow the candles out before bed

& 

i can’t help but think about

the way bodies can get used to anything but

minds can’t, as i

step out of the wet without your towel

to wrap me, without your lugaw to warm me.