Kristin Chang
June 15, 2016
Dawn gapes wide as the pelvis
I wear as my crown.
I want to stitch a dress
into my skin, I want a tongue
that behaves like light,
imageless. I dream of a mouth
reforested, Eve left to name
all the animals. I roll in the
dirt with her, Eve’s darkskinned
shadow, Eve’s fingers
mounting my ribcage. Evening
and I sew my leg hairs
into a robe, coat it in salt,
name it armor, name it
appetite. A boy puts his
hands near mine and I crack
open his jaw like a window,
climb in. Somewhere, a girl
disappears like a jawful of
air. Evening and I fit my fist
into my underwear, let it
sink me like a stillborn.
I clean my teeth with the rusty
side of a penny, imagine if
images were currency: a mirror
that pays you back by returning
you a limb at a time.
Cut the meat / to release its ghosts / Trade yourself / for a girl / who thinks meat is making / a comeback. In / fifth grade my teacher called me / a chink in the armor / but what I heard was / a chink in the armoir / so I shut myself up in a drawer / ate lipstick and played dead / fed on silence and other types of flesh / sometimes I love a god / and sometimes I love flowers / I can pinch my lust like a petal / I can solve my hunger / by screaming into a stranger’s mouth / there is no death / as brutal as birth / the way some wild animals / eat their own children / reminds me of ritual / of knowing that a housefire / is on the other end / of this phone call / and picking up anyway / the fire calls me mother and my stomach / floods with smoke / the fire and I play house / I build and she burns / she locks my drawer and sets my face on fire / renames me the moon / at night she reminds me / that darkness is a woman / abducted, that things have no name / until they are named

Jenzo DuQue

Janice Lee

Chelsea Sutton
