1
Under the moon, cracking sunflower seeds,
we chat about the root of whore.
From carae a friend,
from ka- to desire.
We wash each other’s feet.
We steal eggs and swallow the yolks.
At night, we sleep on the floor mattress.
One of us is from a different time,
a woman-servant, who opens her mouth to receive
her master’s spits.
We’re in here, timeless,
with eggs, no children.
We pity each other and sometimes
let each other’s mouths touch
morning dews with none of the stinks
from tobacco opium.
Some of us have died.
Some of us were lonely and caved.
We remember them like buds of alien flowers.
2
We have an understanding.
I will take this position.
You will take that position.
But we never switch positions.
Sometimes I feel ashamed
then and there. Other times–
it takes months, even decades.
But you’re aware of it already,
this shame transfer,
always, from your side to my side.
3
Passing through silent town
White light day light for the milkvows
Is it always light elsewhere?
4
Pinkline lightening
Between surfs,
Helen of Troy dances with psycho bunnies.
5
A purple bra dangled from a tree branch,
a trophy left by an anonymous grin,
a crimson known.
6
The monster is leaving
when I’m arriving at the hollow.
7
Threshold is a wall. When you look at those orange bricks, you see smears of blood. It’s from the last woman who tried to go through the wall by thrusting her head at the brick. It’s supposed to generate fear.
I don’t want to confuse this fear with the fear of a serial killer who wants to buy me a drink. That fear, the erotic kind, is also a threshold and if I cave, I will stay on the inside of the wall, where I live with this murderer, because it feels familiarly arousing.
I know her. She’s my mother.
Wen Jing is a writer based in Wisconsin. Her fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Narrative Magazine, Chiron Review, and Thimble Literary Magazine. She was the founder and CEO of Beijing Chinese Academy until 2022. She is at work on poems and a novel. Learn more about her at wenjingauthor.com.