After Toni Morrison’s Beloved

Mother, tell me about the child in your womb.

                                               We shared water &

                                                                             blood &

I ate the placenta and the umbilical cord

(and i ate and i ate).

I tasted the iron on my teeth

(it stained until i swallowed and i swallowed the hydrogen peroxide).

Been sitting still the whole day

Can’t sleep

Thank you trazowhatervthehellyouare

For the frog and the eyes

And the image of my

Ex-girlfriend in the sun and

What am I saying?

What’ve I done?

Graze the lips with concrete and floss with blood

Wintergreen and sharp, pennies in the mouth that

Rattle like bicycle wheels down long hills.

Bandaid sticky, adhesive concealer that fortifies a face

To face the world dripping with bruises, salt, and the momentum

My brother’s just moved into college!

Well, not entirely- there’s still his coffee machine and a box of granola bars, but we’re driving those to him today.

"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never one beautiful, it was just red." - Kait Rokowski

I wanna make poetry out of the way the boy who was my first grade best friend

there are years to work out the kinks.

my hands buzzing and my tongue stuck to the back of rusty teeth, i scream to write in an unmarked

language.

but spit wets the page instead.

i want to communicate by destroying our common language.

you are

one of the more lovelier sounds.

i find these days,

i can replicate you if i close my ears enough:

the clash of my spoon with the ice cream bowl,

the kiss my lighter leaves on the body of a candle,

The day I fell out of love with my body—
my capsule,
my shrine—
weakness gnawed away at the palms of my hands,
dissatisfaction consumed my waist,
and comfort withered away like the skin I picked at
day
and night.

I.

My lover is strong for a reason.

I was teasing her neck and giggled when she flipped me

  “play fighting”

hit flat on my back, seeing stars in broad daylight on the lawn

of the private school she would get kicked out of.

The sculptor unveiled a block

A block of marble bought with the

Cents, dollars, kept under lock

Kept under a lock and key.

The sculptor went home again

while rain and lightning poured from skies

Stepped upon the midnight train,

I have wondered why my body
looks the way it does in the sun.
Brow bone glittering, sweat
tricking like the last swill of water
down a glass, blood circulating
like clockwork, a gear so visceral
and rooted in its own

Was it the way the leaves fell,
streamlined, as I burst
bawling onto greenery,

or the first time sunlight peeked
through dark branches overhead—

or the reddish-purple skin
stretched over my sleeping body,
surrounded by fluid? What phantom

Let the Rain Keep Falling

O birthplace rain     I take what I can from

your mouth,    delivering myself

             from spring seeds,

wetting my tongue

                            with your resilience.

And you warm my skin           in segments,

One

It’s half past eleven, so

we find an epileptic street light & swap sweat

before I put my hands in your pockets &

tell you I feel like I’m in Riyadh with a roughcast of redsand on my tongue and camel skin beneath my feet

The deciding factor in

whether or not I’d breach the boundary between binaries

was a gender neutral bathroom sign.

I heard someone belt a show tune in the shower while

another howled. Someone else took off their jeans, stuffed

I will liken the heavy clouds that pass over my land to grey matter

              before my body remembers the practicality of pain

              & blood rushes into my bladder.

              I’ll swallow a scream, or

The ink darkens, leeching my energy as I trace an index over the text. A rejection letter from California Institute of the Arts, and best regards. No better than every other art academy who also shelved my portfolio.

The letter lands neatly in the bin. I stalk to my studio.

claymation in six scenes.

1.

Margaret finds out she is made of clay when she presses into the crook of her elbow and pulls the flesh right off.

2.

A STORY IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE LOVE INTEREST

the director says ​start​, and you come to life like an automaton. a blink, and

“You have nice eyes, but it’s a shame you’re dark.”

“You have beautiful hair, sad that you’re dark.”

“How lucky you are! No pimples or scars, what a shame that you’re you look dark, though.”

Ok, so it’s mid April during Spring break and you’re on the wretched 1 train. You get on at 28th street after a sleepover with your best friend who, in 11 months, will no longer be your friend. You find a seat next to a robust woman who we’re going to call Katelyn.

The boat reeked of fish.

The Robber

Trigger Warning: rape

The parking lot felt stagnant as Jude walked across empty yellow lines. The air was weighted with the cold, heavy enough that it almost seemed like the cloud of her breath dispersed down rather than up. The lights flickered above her head with a steady, fly-like buzz.

                                                                                  SCENE 1

Today I pulled
my grandmother’s body
from the mouth of the river,
unpeeled milkflowers and seawater
from her hair, and knelt over her
the way we bend over our own reflections:
to drink.
Nainai, ni ren shi wo me?*

True silence isn't sealed lips
it's unread texts, deleted history
it's a phone that someone never picks up
The line the dead girl's parents still pay for
even though there is no one to answer it.
the principal is adamant on thoughts