"space" by Thomas Gillaspy
2 poems by Kristin Chang
"Churching"
After church, my brother teaches me
dirty words & all of them
are ways to be womaned.
Night begins somewhere
at the blade-edge
of a body: my brother
sneaks into my mouth
& serrates my teeth, sucks each
clean enough to sun
a room & slap
a shadow off my body.
He likes the dark, the whites
of his eyes wounding
my sleep, waking an ache
in my jaw. In 7th grade,
my brother asks if I’ve ever seen
an erection. I will never know
how blood lunges
inside a boy, becomes a length
of time to forget
my body inside of. The summer nights
I fevered & teethed through both
our sheets, he ladled me
into a bath & the moonlight
stung my skin. The next morning
our mother burned all my clothes
& his too. Proven to prevent
infection. Years later, I cut my tongue
on a cracked tooth & cauterized
the wound with a match. Now
my breath is burnt, my voice a smoke
-furred silence, syntaxed
with scars. My brother still leaves me
voicemails that sound like prayer.
He kneels in my doorway, says
this is the last time. This is the last time
I’ll be someone else’s
god. Godhood is just
like girlhood:
a begging to be believed.
After church, my brother teaches me
dirty words & all of them
are ways to be womaned.
Night begins somewhere
at the blade-edge
of a body: my brother
sneaks into my mouth
& serrates my teeth, sucks each
clean enough to sun
a room & slap
a shadow off my body.
He likes the dark, the whites
of his eyes wounding
my sleep, waking an ache
in my jaw. In 7th grade,
my brother asks if I’ve ever seen
an erection. I will never know
how blood lunges
inside a boy, becomes a length
of time to forget
my body inside of. The summer nights
I fevered & teethed through both
our sheets, he ladled me
into a bath & the moonlight
stung my skin. The next morning
our mother burned all my clothes
& his too. Proven to prevent
infection. Years later, I cut my tongue
on a cracked tooth & cauterized
the wound with a match. Now
my breath is burnt, my voice a smoke
-furred silence, syntaxed
with scars. My brother still leaves me
voicemails that sound like prayer.
He kneels in my doorway, says
this is the last time. This is the last time
I’ll be someone else’s
god. Godhood is just
like girlhood:
a begging to be believed.
"Blowjob"
In Chinese, the word blow
is made from wind and bone
graved in my mouth, he digs
for the base of my language
unwraps my throat
around its breath
& thumbs my eyes closed:
if light is measured in the urge
to wake, this dark
I measure in mouthfuls.
afterwards, I search my mouth
for saltburn, a seasoned bone
a choke of vowels.
Once, a man
taught me
the trick to English
sounds: pretend
your mouth is full
of forgetting. There is no
difference between kneeling
for a man or a god. All pleasure
requires prayer, the body folding
like a flag. Today, the neighborhood
dog cradles a bone in its mouth
like an allegiance
to hunger. I pledge
my house to fire
& rob every grave
boneless. I spit smoke
at the sky’s bellyful
of flight. A man enters my breath
& I blow-
torch my name
into his skin.
My first American purchase
was a postcard:
greetings from the statue
of liberty. No one told me
what the torch was for. How
it was never meant to light
a way into your own
body. How if you look
closely enough, every statue
was once a woman
torch-lighting a nation
& firing her
god, burning every
body he was believed through.
In Chinese, the word blow
is made from wind and bone
graved in my mouth, he digs
for the base of my language
unwraps my throat
around its breath
& thumbs my eyes closed:
if light is measured in the urge
to wake, this dark
I measure in mouthfuls.
afterwards, I search my mouth
for saltburn, a seasoned bone
a choke of vowels.
Once, a man
taught me
the trick to English
sounds: pretend
your mouth is full
of forgetting. There is no
difference between kneeling
for a man or a god. All pleasure
requires prayer, the body folding
like a flag. Today, the neighborhood
dog cradles a bone in its mouth
like an allegiance
to hunger. I pledge
my house to fire
& rob every grave
boneless. I spit smoke
at the sky’s bellyful
of flight. A man enters my breath
& I blow-
torch my name
into his skin.
My first American purchase
was a postcard:
greetings from the statue
of liberty. No one told me
what the torch was for. How
it was never meant to light
a way into your own
body. How if you look
closely enough, every statue
was once a woman
torch-lighting a nation
& firing her
god, burning every
body he was believed through.
Kristin Chang has been published or is forthcoming in Muzzle Magazine, Teen Vogue, the Margins, Connotation Press, and elsewhere. Her gay + angsty little chapbook, "Past lives, future bodies," is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in 2018.
Twitter: @KXinming
Website: kristinchang.com
Twitter: @KXinming
Website: kristinchang.com
Thomas Gillaspy is a northern California photographer. His photography has been featured in numerous magazines including the literary journals: Compose, Portland Review and Brooklyn Review. Further information and additional examples of his work are available at: http://www.thomasgillaspy.com
http://www.flickr.com/photos/thomasmichaelart/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/thomasmichaelart/
