THE TEENAGE GIRL AS VELOCIRAPTOR
ALINE DOLINH
They are the everlasting antagonists. After all –
who else can draw blood
with such small teeth? According to science
they are quasi-mythic creatures, organs hushed
behind enameled marrow,
their bodies clinically reptilian
yet lurid with feathers. All of them
are curiously amorphous
in biology, no certainty
save for their voracious hunger.
They mystify taxonomists. What do you call
monstrosity in miniature, a cladogram
of split lips and sharp hands? There is
something predatory in their
absolute loveliness. Or is it
the other way around?
Observe their careful physiognomy –
half-formed wingspans,
beaked mouths not yet cruel, but still
that fledgling wickedness –
the knife-bright gleam
in narrowed eyes, the avian jut
of hips whetted on bones.
who else can draw blood
with such small teeth? According to science
they are quasi-mythic creatures, organs hushed
behind enameled marrow,
their bodies clinically reptilian
yet lurid with feathers. All of them
are curiously amorphous
in biology, no certainty
save for their voracious hunger.
They mystify taxonomists. What do you call
monstrosity in miniature, a cladogram
of split lips and sharp hands? There is
something predatory in their
absolute loveliness. Or is it
the other way around?
Observe their careful physiognomy –
half-formed wingspans,
beaked mouths not yet cruel, but still
that fledgling wickedness –
the knife-bright gleam
in narrowed eyes, the avian jut
of hips whetted on bones.
RELUCTANT LOVE POEM
ALINE DOLINH
It tastes like a mouthful of eyelashes
swimming in saltwater. Looks like
that dying frog that sunlight sautéed
last summer, body convulsing with flies
as it surrendered to softness. Feels like
a split lip that can’t stop bleeding,
a deluge of baby teeth.
Watch my heart slip out, seeping wet
like a premature birth. Observe the stain
with procedural care, everything fibrous
clamped down fast, but still –
that primordial unavoidability, the recurrence
of every form. How the circle of my neck
remains an open wound. How my skin
always unwinds in the same shape
for you. The worst part is how much it feels
like something sacred.
swimming in saltwater. Looks like
that dying frog that sunlight sautéed
last summer, body convulsing with flies
as it surrendered to softness. Feels like
a split lip that can’t stop bleeding,
a deluge of baby teeth.
Watch my heart slip out, seeping wet
like a premature birth. Observe the stain
with procedural care, everything fibrous
clamped down fast, but still –
that primordial unavoidability, the recurrence
of every form. How the circle of my neck
remains an open wound. How my skin
always unwinds in the same shape
for you. The worst part is how much it feels
like something sacred.
ALINE DOLINH's work has been honored by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the National Student Poets Program. She is currently a poetry reader for The Adroit Journal and student at the University of Virginia, where she studies English and history.
