Ailin Sha
LAST WEEK
you said to leave the pen and I did. At night
that burst bull became: nostril mist
floating into space, a clouded face in black-
and-white 35mm. Burnt frame. Then I
landed on a moon inflated with gas and ego,
far older than the trees that grew this paper.
Shivering red in your toes, I forget—
it’s that time of the month. My tongue
is all leaden echo and scale now swimming
between your half words and finding
the inside of the jungle king’s belly, soon
a son to be or not. Tomorrow I will wake
in Dis and remembering the rest, tomorrow
you will say to leave the pen and I shall.
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