CHINESE TAKEOUT
SOPHIE GU
fuck you and your chinese takeout,
your cashmere lips that have nothing more to say than
“exotic,”
the stain of your shadow on the mossy cliffsides of my lineage,
fuck you and your polaroids,
your old world ivory superimposed on our matchstick livelihoods,
the wave of your hand to brush off a poppyseed fly so
that it may return to the exquisite corpse
that your great senator great-grandaddy made of me,
fuck you and your chinese takeout,
your convenient dining and forgetfulness of that one day
in kindergarten,
when i slid my white rice next to your pb&j,
you moved away,
and said fuck you and your chinese takeout
your cashmere lips that have nothing more to say than
“exotic,”
the stain of your shadow on the mossy cliffsides of my lineage,
fuck you and your polaroids,
your old world ivory superimposed on our matchstick livelihoods,
the wave of your hand to brush off a poppyseed fly so
that it may return to the exquisite corpse
that your great senator great-grandaddy made of me,
fuck you and your chinese takeout,
your convenient dining and forgetfulness of that one day
in kindergarten,
when i slid my white rice next to your pb&j,
you moved away,
and said fuck you and your chinese takeout
HARPY
SOPHIE GU
Come, daughters, come out. I know you’re behind that bough- you stink of it, darlings. Come sit by the inferno, beneath my wing. Now, now, there’s nothing to fear; this neck of the woods is a haven. Don’t fear your new friends; I know they might look quite gruesome. Lucretia, darling, move over, and don’t get your blood on our guests. Here are our new members of the Sisterhood.
---
I once was the wind. I kissed babies goodnight and left rude men to putrefy in their matchstick ships beneath the tropical sun. I helped the Israelites cross the Red Sea and cushioned Lucifer’s tumble from grace. My skin was slick with the blood of the lambs sacrificed in my name. I can hear them screaming still; I carried away their shrieks on my gentlest breeze and bottled them to pour in my bedtime gin. The needle of my moral compass spun like a weathervane and I was beautiful in my unbridled ugliness.
But men can’t love a beautiful thing until they’ve put an arrow through its breast and a silver shackle on its finger. Men battled their natural mortality and my sisters and I were caught in their line of fire. We had our wings clipped, our bodies tarred and feathered. Harpies, they called us. And then they exiled us to barren islands or to Hell. But I was not a harpy, and I do not belong here in the woods. Take care of your ilk, they had told me. Take care of the hideous women who chose to collapse under rather than endure her master’s whip.
Do you know why my girls are here? They didn’t take their own lives. They were stuffed inside a bag and drowned in a lake. Well, quite literally for dear Virginia. Lucretia was raped and chose to die rather than face the punishments they would’ve brought upon her. Sylvia, anchored to her home by her child, watched from the window as her love entered the bed of another woman and never reemerged. Marilyn had been choked to death with velvet ropes, and her bones were already white from all the peroxide treatments.
They will sit in these dark woods with me forever, staring into the fire pit. Sometimes they will fall into a daze and think they see a glimmer of heaven, a righteous golden glow that dims in comparison to the spirit they had been born with. That’s where they belong, Paradise. And I, I belong back beneath sunlight and sky. I am a spirit, a force of nature. I do not operate under human laws, and I do not deserve punishment for fertilizing new life with the bodies of the old. And my little fledglings, they do not operate under the law of man. They are not commodities, they are not bejeweled nightingales who must stay awake to sing men to sleep. They do not deserve to be denied Heaven because men could not deny themselves of their fits of passion.
And you. I am so sorry, my darlings. I am so sorry that you’re to be damned here with us. Centuries upon centuries have passed, and we still receive new inmates because the laws have yet to be changed. Come, sit. Warm yourself by the fire. In this prison you will have the most freedom that they will ever allow you.
But men can’t love a beautiful thing until they’ve put an arrow through its breast and a silver shackle on its finger. Men battled their natural mortality and my sisters and I were caught in their line of fire. We had our wings clipped, our bodies tarred and feathered. Harpies, they called us. And then they exiled us to barren islands or to Hell. But I was not a harpy, and I do not belong here in the woods. Take care of your ilk, they had told me. Take care of the hideous women who chose to collapse under rather than endure her master’s whip.
Do you know why my girls are here? They didn’t take their own lives. They were stuffed inside a bag and drowned in a lake. Well, quite literally for dear Virginia. Lucretia was raped and chose to die rather than face the punishments they would’ve brought upon her. Sylvia, anchored to her home by her child, watched from the window as her love entered the bed of another woman and never reemerged. Marilyn had been choked to death with velvet ropes, and her bones were already white from all the peroxide treatments.
They will sit in these dark woods with me forever, staring into the fire pit. Sometimes they will fall into a daze and think they see a glimmer of heaven, a righteous golden glow that dims in comparison to the spirit they had been born with. That’s where they belong, Paradise. And I, I belong back beneath sunlight and sky. I am a spirit, a force of nature. I do not operate under human laws, and I do not deserve punishment for fertilizing new life with the bodies of the old. And my little fledglings, they do not operate under the law of man. They are not commodities, they are not bejeweled nightingales who must stay awake to sing men to sleep. They do not deserve to be denied Heaven because men could not deny themselves of their fits of passion.
And you. I am so sorry, my darlings. I am so sorry that you’re to be damned here with us. Centuries upon centuries have passed, and we still receive new inmates because the laws have yet to be changed. Come, sit. Warm yourself by the fire. In this prison you will have the most freedom that they will ever allow you.
GENTEEL
SOPHIE GU
it’s awful quiet here
except for the evangelists on the radio
and the old woman singing, crooning
in a dialect i lost since sunday school
city rain is nothing like the gossamer fog
on the drugstore bottles of mint green cologne
or jane austen bound by hot pink faux leather
it doesn’t even wash away the piss
i like the scent of vices on my eyelids,
the way the wind pulls my hair back
while night vomits her will-o’-the-wisps in
lighted cigarette butts and runaway eyes
when i fall asleep in my honors classes
i like to dream about how i will be disposed of
whether i will be honored like a flayed botticelli
or be leftovers in scattered wax paper sacks
of course,
my room is well lit and the doors lock
the man who used to live in this house even left
a small carving on the jamb to ward off evil
and the neighborhood dogs don’t keep me up
but it does get awful quiet
and i do miss the rain
except for the evangelists on the radio
and the old woman singing, crooning
in a dialect i lost since sunday school
city rain is nothing like the gossamer fog
on the drugstore bottles of mint green cologne
or jane austen bound by hot pink faux leather
it doesn’t even wash away the piss
i like the scent of vices on my eyelids,
the way the wind pulls my hair back
while night vomits her will-o’-the-wisps in
lighted cigarette butts and runaway eyes
when i fall asleep in my honors classes
i like to dream about how i will be disposed of
whether i will be honored like a flayed botticelli
or be leftovers in scattered wax paper sacks
of course,
my room is well lit and the doors lock
the man who used to live in this house even left
a small carving on the jamb to ward off evil
and the neighborhood dogs don’t keep me up
but it does get awful quiet
and i do miss the rain
SOPHIE GU is still figuring everything out but knows for sure writing is somehow involved. She is a California Arts Scholar and has been recognized by the California High School Speech Association for her work in Original Prose and Poetry. Check out more of her writing at swgwriting.wordpress.com.
