San Francisco, April 5
1.
I kissed a girl on the grass in Golden Gate Park. My fingers were in her hair.
My hand was to her neck. Press. Pulse. Rabbit feet. I shook
just like the windy trees. I bled myself through my mouth.
She says this is so public, you must know--
the arm down her back—each bird breath brings her neck.
She must know I do not bite to jest.
I barely know the taste of ear, neck, collarbone,
the muscle stretching beneath the skin. I am not here to eat her whole.
2.
We walk down Geary. Past the Panera where I bought her chai, Mel’s Drive-In.
I stop here
for a milkshake. Wait in line for the sensation of weaving our fingers together,
the pumping in her wrist.
Once I wrote a poem in which a line read, “Bother Bother I am//everything.”
I am the last girl on Earth and I am bleeding into her.
3.
How does a half-formed thing crawl up inside another? There is nothing to be said
of the clumsy press of lips. Chapped. Swallow. Pull. Blood.
Do we make an incision, mouth to skin, and dive into each other?
4.
I come away with a sickness. Her small bird necklace--
a noose around my throat. I hang from the gallows of Golden Gate Park. Purple. Schrödinger’s Cat.
5.
It is almost time to leave.
The secret: it is in the grass. Take it and eat it. Chew it through. She does not bear a scarlet incision
down her sternum for another to crawl, rabbit-like, bird-nest. She says we are not half-formed things.
6.
I will tell you how to hold a girl.
Hold her hand, the jut of her shoulder. I told her you know that quote from the Notebook? She had never seen. We walked down 15th Ave E.
7.
I kissed a girl on the grass in Golden Gate Park. My fingers were in her hair.
Florida
It is Florida,
the state
of retired men asleep
at mid day. She never
tans here. She lies out all day.
Sometimes she slips
naked and high into the swamps.
It fills her, swamp water,
call it bayou, enters her
mouth. She swallows it all.
She floats here. It is always the
weather to never hold hands.
Man
Need a man. Hold him
with strength but delicate—let him know
his arms can crush. Look him
in his eye. See
him. He looks in mine
and sees Himself. Remember I
kissed him//on his lips//Birds saw
I came away with nothing.
#Sea #Man #Go #Home
He says
Tongue//eat//swallow
me. I eat
until he is purple and bloats to fill the Academy of Sciences.
Metastasizing on my tongue I feel
more powerful than this world--
the sea--
I write about sea creatures. He
is the dumbest fish with his octopus blown cheeks and
lantern colored eyes—my
dead fish, my absolute—the
last flashy seaweed man I bring home.
1.
I kissed a girl on the grass in Golden Gate Park. My fingers were in her hair.
My hand was to her neck. Press. Pulse. Rabbit feet. I shook
just like the windy trees. I bled myself through my mouth.
She says this is so public, you must know--
the arm down her back—each bird breath brings her neck.
She must know I do not bite to jest.
I barely know the taste of ear, neck, collarbone,
the muscle stretching beneath the skin. I am not here to eat her whole.
2.
We walk down Geary. Past the Panera where I bought her chai, Mel’s Drive-In.
I stop here
for a milkshake. Wait in line for the sensation of weaving our fingers together,
the pumping in her wrist.
Once I wrote a poem in which a line read, “Bother Bother I am//everything.”
I am the last girl on Earth and I am bleeding into her.
3.
How does a half-formed thing crawl up inside another? There is nothing to be said
of the clumsy press of lips. Chapped. Swallow. Pull. Blood.
Do we make an incision, mouth to skin, and dive into each other?
4.
I come away with a sickness. Her small bird necklace--
a noose around my throat. I hang from the gallows of Golden Gate Park. Purple. Schrödinger’s Cat.
5.
It is almost time to leave.
The secret: it is in the grass. Take it and eat it. Chew it through. She does not bear a scarlet incision
down her sternum for another to crawl, rabbit-like, bird-nest. She says we are not half-formed things.
6.
I will tell you how to hold a girl.
Hold her hand, the jut of her shoulder. I told her you know that quote from the Notebook? She had never seen. We walked down 15th Ave E.
7.
I kissed a girl on the grass in Golden Gate Park. My fingers were in her hair.
Florida
It is Florida,
the state
of retired men asleep
at mid day. She never
tans here. She lies out all day.
Sometimes she slips
naked and high into the swamps.
It fills her, swamp water,
call it bayou, enters her
mouth. She swallows it all.
She floats here. It is always the
weather to never hold hands.
Man
Need a man. Hold him
with strength but delicate—let him know
his arms can crush. Look him
in his eye. See
him. He looks in mine
and sees Himself. Remember I
kissed him//on his lips//Birds saw
I came away with nothing.
#Sea #Man #Go #Home
He says
Tongue//eat//swallow
me. I eat
until he is purple and bloats to fill the Academy of Sciences.
Metastasizing on my tongue I feel
more powerful than this world--
the sea--
I write about sea creatures. He
is the dumbest fish with his octopus blown cheeks and
lantern colored eyes—my
dead fish, my absolute—the
last flashy seaweed man I bring home.
Audrey Zhao lives in California. Her writing has been recognized by the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and Words Dance. When not writing, you can find Audrey tending to her plant, Ribbon Gibbon.