Kristin Chang


then hurt:  you glug,  milk-like,  into a pleat  against my hips.  Witness  my hips a  slumbering cityblock,  blade-born and dark
with dog-shaped shadows,  you cream yourself  in this dark.  I swear and smear you  like a white infection  over every hollow
roof,  call it dawn.  Every morning requires medical attention - we have to cover our hands  and  heads before they storyline -
before we flick the theater from our eyes and how. Our starring role as a skullcap that has to be worn inside every monument.
She monuments  for us,  compiles  an  armory of  unloaded  bb guns  and  as  sustenance,  wheels  the  white cheese  of skin
underbreast.  So  we are cast  in each other's military,  we always shoot to the left  of  the moon in daytime,  visibly  bloodied.
This is natural.  In the trees,  some wetness at my inner elbow pearling at the corner of your mouth,  of  course,  just another
crease we call  soft cavalry,  of course,  you're scared.  You try to  monument me,  a bone,  a breast,  but  you're sad,  I  was
born to this.  So you gut the cheese,  wait  to exhibit symptoms of a thickened sky.  Witness every morning's bloodied moon a
performance of self-surveillance.

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