Journal » Trout 13 » Diary Of A Botanist: 1 [Don Mee Choi]
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Diary of a Botanist: 1

Don Mee Choi

Alone with a stalk of celery I squat to urinate on a mound of parsley. I walk into a forest that glows in darkness. I lift the wings of a rainbow lorikeet and stroke its green veins.

Its eyes thick as clouds see me as purple eucalyptus. Who are you and why have you come? I kiss. My tongue whirls around its orange gum. It shivers with joy. I sweat.

More pine needles to count. Inside the laboratory I wash, rinse, blot dry this year's shoot cut from pine trees and store it in plastic bags at 4 degrees. Everything must be stored in plastic. One needle per stalk is infected with fungi. I mark the infection with ink.

All infections must be marked. In the evenings, kookaburras come looking for diced meat.

They laugh at my armpits, my soap-dried hands. They see me sway, sweat, smell my own tongue. Here, there. Here, there. They laugh at my hair. I follow their rusted wings. Tell me where I should urinate.


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