Girlhood Ghazal

In April I am brutally killed by daffodils. The walls smear
themselves unsure with yellow. I go quietly—heaven crowns everyone king.

In this country we deadbeat our way into love. A boy prods
the bulb of his lover’s ear gingerly, like checking bruised fruit for picking.

In this dream, walls are a wailing electric blue. I embark, sick
with heat. I embargo. I dead squirrel on highways. I split for hot rain. I king.

In my memories summer is shaped like a farmer’s glistening sickle. A body
against a body & paper mouth on paper mouth, sticky crescents. Smiling eyes, keen.

In any world map I am hunted for sport. Squint at the sky & a helicopter
becomes a burning star. Squint at me & we both become micro-sinkings.

In the street sprouts my sister. Once, we flipped dreams hot in the pan. There was space
enough for two miracles. Now, I know which of us the world loves better fucking.

In poetry we are demanded to leave something behind
at the site of ruin. I declare myself heretic—teenage Ozymandias—king of unmakings.

In learning about deficiency I learn about blue. The sky has never needed
to touch anything to be in love; I waltz, hands empty of my own making.

In marriage there are no lesser rules. Quality daughters pull out
wriggling rabbits from top hat wombs. All our coagulated red is kin.

In China I am even less than I am now. I stick a hand in my stomach &
bang bang bang bang bang. I look for blood & everyone else is also looking.

In me is all the blue my mother swallowed in pregnancy. Supermarkets, empty of
spirulina & blueberries for cravings. Monochromed skies. Customer, become king.

In my chest lies a recursive—a girl is a ghost is a girl. Fall comes early & forgives
flammable nothings. Says: this is not your lover, Emily. You, too, have no kings.

Emily Tong is an Asian-American poet from New Jersey. Her work has been recognized by or is forthcoming in Augur Magazine, Palette Poetry, Fugue, BRAWL Lit, Thimble Literary Magazine, and elsewhere.