Muriel Leung



I Ghost You

The great possible is how I feel your flesh move within bare receptacles of thought.1


Thought is and thought flocks.2


Everything is a careful erasure until it is the violent kind.3


Each line is a romance. When we speak, love peels and I am not wanted anymore.4


Poem, poem, and feeling. The feeling rots.5


Echoes of the haunting kind swoop in between spaces.6


This is a type of country. The water continually floods.7


Boarded up poet. Strange yellow onion girl and her queered skies.8


When the ghosts come knocking—open up.9




1 They tried to curtail my metaphors and I floundered. I’m flummoxed through and through, moving towards a   happily. Otherwise known as a possible; if an animal—a paper bird.
2 Thought is also the paper bird.
3 How I lived so long with stones in my mouth and turned them into sex.
4 When lines meet the courage bed.
5 A world of want for you in the poem, in the circle worm, in the maggot carrion.
6 Sarah Gambito once said, "I write these lines and leave my many blanks because I ask myself: How can I not write the silence?"
7 If you have stayed with me thus far, you know that I am many countries of bark and moss. I make poems. Disasters.
8 Or havoc queen.
9 They have seen all of you. Tiny valiant sacks of pearly molars and lickety lies. Or human.
10 The world's greatest variable.




Notes on Deviancy


There is a cold noose waking inside of me.

Half-lit. A sinking I can't stomach.

The other dark feathering down the choke hole.

Because when she touched me, my skin singed.

Desire too is tapered when the choir no longer wants your song.

To think—how effortless, the spry girls go about their summer days.

So am I beloved?

They would say I was succulent and soft between the teeth.

Full of bristles, the people whom I have loved.

Youth spent nicking each other with aged razors and rust.

A fat lip glimmer against someone else's bruise.

Everybody crowded around my sullen moon face.

So I parade around some more in hopes that you'd buy into this cheap lipstick.

Louder now, a mermaid bone beats against the drum.

The hole inside me is periwinkle bright.

On the carousel, I am thrust back and forth between a good and not so good time.

All this twinkle noise and chiffon on tutu.

The giant's harp climbs down a phallic vine and falls into me in various swoons.

I would say I was a nice girl who gave you peppermints in cellophane wrap.

I was half a sheet of wool.

Then I was a round stone in somebody's mouth.

Setting off every mechanical toy in the blistered town.