When I write the truth, I write
in second person. No names, no sharp edges.
and me with a mouth full of tinfoil.
There are too many tongues
to keep track. I am so afraid of drawing
the wrong card, my last nosedive-jack-
knife-burst into rose petals. The dust is harder than you
think. We’ve been over since
I entered this world, pinkish, gnawing
my rashes, but
these days I cannot stop un-thinking.
These days I collect your everyday ashes, though
I have no place to put them, not in this pocket-
sized house, not today. I curve
my backbone into a question mark, or apostrophe.
My arms are full of yesterday’s
knickknacks. You know, we could undo
these truth tellers, under some blue-
black wing of night.
Ann Zhang in your typical predictable American suburb. She has a not-so-secret soft spot for tofu cheesecake and other alternative desserts.