Their government ugly makes our colony drunk.
It’s a fuckwad Victorian-era fight. The slaughterhouse follows us,
sleep-eating. Asking for más meat.
This happy visiting hole.
And my soap voice husband. Turning over, he says—in immaculate
we deserve beautiful between wars. A love body, a dumpling. At least
a lovely face, some pretty piedra enclosed in jungle. For my sticky birthday
let’s go unfilial. Go national shit line.
I’ve been needed in English—
a small, hard voice pawing my night.
This is invocation. Or divination. We’re bruises, an unconstitutional ceremony
of dirt. We won’t feel the dead come. We’re brighter
birds, cucurrucucú. No llores, our messed flesh sleep,
and what was I,
apart from your law.
Copyright © 2019 Kenji C. Liu
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.