By Miles Nguyen

Show me your hands—their skin, their shape. Would you believe me if I told you there are things they could not dream to hold?

Look at me!
        Slipping through this gate
just in time to hear the night
begin her well-deserved
bout of laughter.
And here I am—unlaced and nauseous-sweet—

        and I can be nothing but drunk tonight.



Come, come! cut me open, you will see—
I am a genius
and bigger than any cup you could pour me into
        for liquid is always the sufficient mode
and eye-for-an-eye is the perfect vow.

I can admit
that I am not above being
crazy visible from time to time—but even so
I am far far too famous to stand
being recognized in moments like these.

Instead, I will use
whatever sharp things are in my mouth
and tear open this senescent state
this regurgitation.

O—did you know? that
survival depends only on being
        gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous
Well lucky me, I am just that—
swan-necked and spinning
so fast I become a circle

        stopping only for mirrorlooking.



Now see:
The wicked nurse has come to stitch me back together
leaving me with nothing but a small stone—
        a pity gift,
        poor imitation of moon.
By high morning I will be
        wrecked
and rolling it between my fingers
hoping it will loosen up my chest
or rearrange me into
an apple
or a seed. ■