the kitchen

that’s where I get my thinking done / when I was 18 I changed the fan above my mother’s stove / bleached old motors of turmeric and sesame oil / dumpling grease prickled my skin when I changed the filter / it followed me / like a stranger lusts for a woman walking down the street / I felt something crawling into my puff pastry layers / skin cradled by syrup / I used to be flesh / it split my blood, dissecting my rose stem in half / fragments of sweet egg and leftover glass / diluted tiles of brandy / this was where I first learned how to kiss
 

 

 

the siren of Bushwick

behind the purple moon, you worship alone / those who come in / hold the devil’s warrant / papers stapled on a slant / you were once a tree / how you loathe them removing your veil / they tore you down / your bear claws give a silver handjob / no longer grounded / elbows dissect in ways it shouldn’t / a wave surrenders and you are sticky / they start the ritual / prayers forming a marriage / in the corridors of their skin / folding in front of no one / they surrender to a god without feelings / when you blossom to a shaking rose / there is no crevice you cannot reach / you can’t remember the last time you washed your hair

your father wanted you to be a doctor

 

 


Elizabeth Tsung is a poet and writer living in Queens, NY.