She slipped in the sand, and
the box she was carrying almost tumbled out of
her hands. Digging
her fingers firmly
into the grooves of wooden vines on its cover, she tramped
down the beach
toward the waiting water,
going by ear.
The lapping waves were
her ears and perfume on
her lips as the wind kissed her
hello. She sat
in the flat sand. Water seeped
into her thin athletic shorts. She rested the box between
her knees and stretched
her legs out before
This evening was not altogether
in vision. The darkness hummed with starlight, conspicuously lacking
in the alto melody of
the moon like a prima donna late to the concert, but
she was the one who was entering in the middle of the show. She kissed
her fingers apologetically and
raised them up to the dark moon overhead, then took
a deep, salty breath
and opened the...
girl in pearls & grey tattered tee. asymmetrical and uncomfortable. behind her, fairy lights begin to tango,
she sees no end to dawns.
girl in oily mattress. she is awake, the lights are on because the sun is unbound, but the rope stretches thin.
girl fingering elbows. hair braided in thrashes, hair brushed in sound photons, the curls breathing.
photo solidifies and thus disappears from present. [whiteout]
after the shower, i stepped out
with a book in my hand
i glanced down as i toweled droplets from my legs
i saw the droplet on the crack between tiles
like liquid pomegranate seed
and the thought makes me smile
that my uterus, coated in forbidden fruit
is releasing its treasures through the birth of nothing alive
thought makes me smile
that every persephone learns to dance across vibrational planes
once they taste the waves inside them
and once they revel in the heat,
dancing naked as the twang-twang strings drip red.
On the side of the road there's a shrine
Little patches of belief make up the fabric of our world
Grannies quilt with guilty needles
Loaded with our humanness
Our human mess
Stains our sky
Clouds like saturated sponges
Light towers, lines of power,
Transcendence isn't organic,
But a paradox of lust
But I see more light in the hollering spirit of my grandfather than in your industrial ceiling panels -- that kind that shades my skin into a grey coat so you can point to it like a good host and ask if you can take it from me.
Me crushing the orchid in my hair and finger-painting a boulder.
Not you standing by and waiting for me to ripen before digging me up.
Getting me under your nails.
"Washing me away."
You'll be stuck at the sink, till you see a window in your mirror.
The Asian Girl’s means of communication to a room in which she is the only (Asian Girl)
is her pair of big, expressive eyes.
The eyes that narrow to slits
that invite captivity and derision
because we want them minus
the brain that connects to them.
The kaleidoscope eyes that betray
nothing except careful sex appeal
— sex appeal, as in an opportunity to overpower and grab,
with the exact amount of equal pushback from
to keep conquerors from shores
— and behind that, a void.
This is the silent film Asian Girl, opening her eyes in a room without people.
Trapped, because whatever she opens to express herself is:
a purse turning upside down, spilling human, mistaken for a gumball machine. So it goes.
She closes every orifice and makes her fingers dance,
hoping for a way in.
She seals herself up and opens her eyes at her own thoughts,
curls infinitely into herself,