Sarcophagus
Because the body, for its safe passage,
must be preserved. Because there is a spell
written to fulfill every longing: thirst & hunger
& the infatuation with one’s embryonic name.
In another century, grave goods ornament the dead
in elegance. An ivory comb to align all thread,
a green amulet to sustain the heart. Under the light
of a display case, the ceremonial blade curves
into flint & hieroglyph. I imagine myself opening
canopic jars & mouths, the slow reanimation
of our limbs. As the docent lectures, I pass aisles
of sarcophagi & turn inconsolable.
I learn sarcophagus originates from the Greek
for “flesh-eating stone” & I am jealous
of these painted bodies built to house decay.
This isn’t a metaphor. When I say I seek
beauty through symmetry, I don’t mean
I believe in the repetition of shells.
Or, don’t hold me when I’m lonely.
I only want to cannibalize
my own selfish appetite.
Dream Sequence
I refuse the color blue when it comes
in voltas. All winter, I dance en pointe
in a skirtless leotard while my mother tuts
sequences at the barre. What beauty confounds
the logic of perspective? The imprints of a snow hare
braiding through a white field. Or, why I perform
in the theatre: for its ribbed balconies,
heavy velvet curtains. My mother believes
our history is idiomatic, encoded into the string
of pearls we hide in a choked drawer.
The spectacle we make of memory—brilliant,
accumulating, skeletal. A silver bowl
replete with peaches, skin darkened
to a ruddy stain. I feed my mother slivers
of pulp & pretend the white tights on my legs
belong to a rococo daughter. Meanwhile,
the intimacy of glass figurines & doors
left ajar. Meanwhile, the snow falling
where it must: in our hands, frigid & ruinous,
the remnants of all we have yet to inherit.
Style
I am in need of privacy and a new wardrobe.
Indulge me. There is nothing that style cannot fix.
Outside, a colony of bees stir with a missing monarch.
Does that make them more or less of a swarm.
Picnic blankets spread thin over a patchwork lawn
and summer in America begins and ends
with a fork in the road. Is it grace that makes me love
or reciprocate love. Once, I went to the evening opera
and heard the soprano tune her tongue to the pitch
of an empty wine glass. Once, I fell asleep
before the television and woke up in a commercial
for tuxedos. So maybe I loved a boy that smelled
like fennel and ketamine. Maybe I booked a hotel
with a two-star rating just to trash my half-knitted scarf.
There has to be a way for a needle to enter
without inventing more holes. I should’ve learned
how to crochet instead. I only ever needed
that one live stitch.
***
Author photo by Kelly Ding
