The Skin I Live In

Siren by Tina Chang

The darkness holds her quivering
like a girl leaning over a boat.
The ripple of water and light
fool her into believing.
Light penetrates water
and makes folds in places
the wind may have overlooked.

In my world, I never swim,
only will myself to be the one
who is foolish enough to want
to touch the light on water,
where desire follows me
and wraps its arms around
me, body hitting water.

Labor by Tina Chang

The bodies are fools for loving each other's
empty cavities. A hollow stick leans against
the wall in the dark. You love her foolishly
despite your will. Because things will ruin and ruin.

When the silence is something larger and louder
than the thunder tearing over the house, when
the field seems emptier because she stands
at its center. When the body doesn't feel

like it's yours, you offer it. Then
everything stops like the end of a story,
a film on the edge of breaking. House of spun sugar
threatens to burst at its hinges, snow falls

in music sheets, table letters remain half written,
coins scattered across the room. Outside,
crows take off shattering the thick of rain.
And the work of rain becomes harder.