VICTORIA CHANG
After Hanging Mao Posters
All night her mind prepared like a
tilled field—
not a thing missing but a lake that
glows
like a wolf’s eye. Thighs, hair,
shrieks,
a toeless foot dragging itself.
The red
poppies open and close, like little
mouths.
Waiting to fill and empty out the
next
person with its scent. Something is
about
to. Something is always about
to.
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