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.