Nicolette Wong

Sky Well

                Was voluptuous the storm distanced:
Such grey cavern worn, so deep they trunk
throat to throat, face buzzcut sky.

                Disintegrate    hundred branches they, saliva
straps parallel chin
                                    man fault for power.
                                                                  No country
for birth so many names    bury trespass.
Can they moss the same boy abducted, acts of jockstraps?

Comrades appall tap ballerinas.
Comrades ask blouses cubic silence.
Blast the recorder melodic.
                                                   They have choked a hole.
                                                   They have choked a hole.

Sky Well (II)

A musket shooting into your stomach.
A bullet speeding.
                               A lunette singes through wall
to position yourself in convention,
bare chested, sprightly dialectic

contractual if heritage is drawn,
my polarities the color of threat.

A surfeit of fear: that you will die affronts the present,
when it won't pod p    new names
                                                             organic you want.

These spiral drapes that wrap us like contortions
a branching white on the wall:
mass inlets narrowing, fleeting
                                              pentacle hunger.

Do not concede to barbed laps.
I will suck up frames, hurl my knees
through chandelier rifles
                                     your open hands.


The skyprints wash granite. On the braille map that trembles
through your gut, where you pawn your axis to become a bed

and call on god to spew personalities. The newborns will floor
the watersheds, crawl from post to post to spin hysteria.


A flashlight is trimming our house.

I sell tulips, muzzled souls on a leash. The street is not destroyed;
it is reflexive of the monuments of my womb.

To The Ghost I Follow

Closing in on time, usually hot, I wake up to the chrome percussions, in the trail of a boleo. The swing is brighter than our angles, above the freeway, or what prompts us, a missive on bricks.

To mark the covert, the young man draws
ill-fitting dresses (I wear
                                                  in my house).


A dress, afloat in a house, is, itself, a lone habitat. Will I be freed when it moves upon me? I spell, a misread nightmare. In rags, my body a stave.

I am outside

splintering the length of a highway.


My cowries convulse, foam the streets. Away from the stage I could not govern—the order of suspension, of transgression through music and water, each with a different purpose.

My partner’s face—crooked—multiplies
like a phalanx of paranoid soldiers
flapping by the dunes.

Nicolette Wong is a magician, dancer, writer, and editor in chief of A-Minor Magazine & Press. She blogs at Meditations in an Emergency.
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