Sam Huang

anthropological phenomenon

a body infected by holes, incomplete/unfinished—missing
parts. a meteor collapsing to fragments, shrapnel/killing
tools—weapon against human will.

missiles like teeth. heart like jaws. misplaced in
the process of becoming. eyeballs like candy;
lick the pupils against the flat of your tongue. so sweet,
color fading quick against wet spit. blinking green
then red.

i would let you eat me alive if the atmosphere hadn’t
jumbled my insides. organs spilling out
ears—picasso painting vomiting on purple carpet. my blood
of stars, glowing at night, light streaming out
the wound in my neck.
transitioning between states of love.

a mermaid gave me advice: “swallow the pearl earring
and steal the image of a woman, though it might not work
as life under the surface differs from an object
pummeling toward it.” i took it anyway, her tail
and the earring too, but i still remain a wrong
art. smeared face and blocky shoulders.
an incorrectly configured formula of jealousy.

do you feel guilty?
the hunger remains. the appetite disappears
when the incisors in your chest chew
but satisfaction stays impossible. i swear

these hands were once mine. promise, with tongues
crossed, this vessel held together by string and dreaming.

corporeal form

i traded a wooden town built on water for a city
constructed of cracked glass. the first few
weeks, i loved how sunlight crept through spiny fingers
extended from the hole of a heart, the center
of all destruction. one by one, pieces tumbled,
plummeting into the ocean like wind gushing through a
abandoned train or an earthquake rattling those creaky shelves.

love the flight; love the death.

in my dream, the childhood friend drowns. nobody
searches for her, and i alone am left
to dig into the muddy bank for any evidence
that she existed at all. when i wake
i find that i’m sinking into my bed.
weeds clamor at my throat, pillowy arms choking out an escape.
no matter how far you run, your past
will eviscerate you; the glass will shatter.

like regret, it will be beautiful, the transformation
of your new home into a prison. physicality
determines much of your inner world.
you cannot be
the walls of a Midwest apartment / the carpet of a New England townhouse /
the emptiness of a California bedroom /the windows of a London flat. you cannot
be someone outside your body,
blowing bubbles and seeing rainbows in your reflection.
if you are to be a soul, then where could you possibly belong without love?