Michelle Jia

When I say beloved I mean
a body safe to walk into.
A white gut, good for painting,
drum-taut filaments of questionable
taste. Some days
I cannot believe how young
I am; some days I feel
misplaced. My disproportionate
love for Nothing, No One, etc.
like a robe I woke up
wearing, sewn with such
dumb levity–I made
my new svelte skin. Finally! Unable
to articulate the old raisons d’être,
I might say: the face is just a face,
and no one knows
when we will meet again.

Splendid. I feel like God now:
useless, but still good to have around.
I laugh; I bluff; I stick my head
in a velvet box and seal the top,
just to feel smaller
than something.