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by Stephanie Chang I tie my breaths to a post, watch her twine each into brethren. It’s midnight in my head & she binds her reckless throat. Says this revolution couldn’t translate. See: in the stories I am sleepless, cussing in song that coats my skin in dew. & suddenly she’s there: a war-horse in the water. Both our bodies slick with silver, the light chewing holes in them after each round of gunfire. Before the men can sharpen their knuckles, I imagine her lips are made of glass. In another lifetime, the girl might have tasted ruthless. Broken her mouth over secrets & boys kissed only at night—watch your wallet. Instead: one silhouette shivering on the streets. Scene spat out: How my teeth could have dragged along her sleeves, etched on breast two obituaries by morning. I want to set this town on fire. Rake through her hair a porcelain matchstick. Watch the world swallow rain. Any scene is sadder that way. Somebody please tell her I’ll love her more when it’s dark. More when it’s sundown & I am drowning in the wind. Always in some war where my father reminds me there are no roads for violent girls. No places in heaven to end up. By dawn, I’ll wake up in an empty house. Hear the muskets croon a century away. Her laugh echoing forever on a high note. Stephanie Chang is a high school senior from Richmond, BC, Canada. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Margins, Kenyon Review, Adroit Journal, diode poetry journal, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Berkeley Poetry Review. She has been recognized by the Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize, National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and Anthony Quinn Foundation. Stephanie is the daughter of immigrants from Hong Kong and Taiwan. Currently, she interns at sinθ and reads for Muzzle Magazine. |
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