YELLOW-VIOLENT
DIANA KHONG
someone taught you to take:
bone, thigh, pacifier—a
chronology of things held in
the mouth. you felled a
valley during your first
go-around.
it wasn’t your last, but
it was your bloodiest.
he, head full
of sea glass, menagerie
of want, takes you
generations to swallow.
you sink your teeth into
the foam-white of his chest,
become a space
between wave crests,
a yellow-violent bruise
shifting
like water under hands.
bone, thigh, pacifier—a
chronology of things held in
the mouth. you felled a
valley during your first
go-around.
it wasn’t your last, but
it was your bloodiest.
he, head full
of sea glass, menagerie
of want, takes you
generations to swallow.
you sink your teeth into
the foam-white of his chest,
become a space
between wave crests,
a yellow-violent bruise
shifting
like water under hands.
IN MY BODY IT IS TRADITION TO UNSPOOL ITSELF
DIANA KHONG
in my body it is tradition
to fog mausoleum walls with the heat of my mouth
and god, he says it's hot,
the way my voice dips like a hydraulic car
all boom, squeal, and bass, and i am
hollowed-out hog, cut and paste.
yes, that gasoline sticks to the base of my throat
i get that from my mother.
our women dip their tongues in condensed milk,
longevity brand, but still, these words sound like a fist
coming out of me.
my blood permeates it
peppered up, marinated in soy,
the way my mouth reeks/
froths on all edges,
this double-ended dagger
i call body.
did he mean it like that?
the way i climb with absolution
out of a bone-made cage,
did he still want it? — a
bird in the hands delicate
by ways of destroyable,
a current of static to
congeal with his comments on reddit--
hot breath all over the pillowcase but it’s
a space bar that comes out a stutter.
he asks how you say please. how
you say occupy. how you wring
all the water from cloth
with only the meat of your hands.
if he wants fire, he wants it saddled
in his mouth as he rolls ruin against his teeth
like a dragon doped up on ketamine.
he wants to feel that heat against his face
and to palpitate in it until he can wrench his hands in
and pull out something red
from that garden of wilt.
in my body it is tradition to unspool itself,
to have even the spaces between words
make bullet holes in shape of my mouth,
to strike heel down on water
and float
as he dissolves beneath me.
to fog mausoleum walls with the heat of my mouth
and god, he says it's hot,
the way my voice dips like a hydraulic car
all boom, squeal, and bass, and i am
hollowed-out hog, cut and paste.
yes, that gasoline sticks to the base of my throat
i get that from my mother.
our women dip their tongues in condensed milk,
longevity brand, but still, these words sound like a fist
coming out of me.
my blood permeates it
peppered up, marinated in soy,
the way my mouth reeks/
froths on all edges,
this double-ended dagger
i call body.
did he mean it like that?
the way i climb with absolution
out of a bone-made cage,
did he still want it? — a
bird in the hands delicate
by ways of destroyable,
a current of static to
congeal with his comments on reddit--
hot breath all over the pillowcase but it’s
a space bar that comes out a stutter.
he asks how you say please. how
you say occupy. how you wring
all the water from cloth
with only the meat of your hands.
if he wants fire, he wants it saddled
in his mouth as he rolls ruin against his teeth
like a dragon doped up on ketamine.
he wants to feel that heat against his face
and to palpitate in it until he can wrench his hands in
and pull out something red
from that garden of wilt.
in my body it is tradition to unspool itself,
to have even the spaces between words
make bullet holes in shape of my mouth,
to strike heel down on water
and float
as he dissolves beneath me.
DIANE KHONG is a poet and diasporic ghost. She enjoys ginger, girls, and good stuff. She is editor-in-chief of Kerosene Magazine and is on staff at Ascend, Noble Gas Quarterly, and Red Queen Lit. Catch her tweeting @deerthrum.
