Rachel Kang

The morning you left me You left me a hundred years before On a dock


The steady wrinkle down one side
Rageful as I am I know
The dark cut of a whisper
Being breathless
How we slip from one finger
To the next
Dripping in pretty circles on blue paper
Diving in and out of the light

Am I imperialist if I
Miss the rooftop
The black tar on the back of my jacket
Like I was pushed
Out of a car
Or burned in the open air
Your blond hair licking off
Every freckle on my body

Am I a new kind of excess
The “made in china” you can feel
The clothes you wear
The back of your hand on my thigh
Your wet silk glove

When I hold you to my chest
Are you closer to your mother
Or further than you’ve ever been
Does she know you’re here
How my slanted cunt weeps
For napalm soaked babies

The morning you left me
You left me a hundred years before
On a dock
On a mountain
On barbed wire

And if my love is ripped
As red as dirt
As yellow as your sister’s sun dress
Am I the blue on white paper
The ocean that moans


RACHEL KANG is a little bit cuntry and a little bit Asian. Her work appears or is forthcoming in DMQ Review, The Brooklyn Poets Anthology, and elsewhere. She received her BFA from New York University and currently lives in Queens with her foster cat, Sheila. For more about Rachel, check out www.rachelkang.com.


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