they tilted your world until it fell

| by Vivian Huang

the drowning cigarette sits pretty

curled in under your tongue,

singes your raw flesh until it bleeds, bleeds

rust, black, stars, but you

chuckle a little, tell me it’s fine, tell me

that’s how things are supposed

to be but you have blood leaking from your

arms & it draws on your bare feet

the rough soles that purée-d through the

pacific, hopped through the smoke

that lingers in the silverite walls of the

atlantis you & your wife built with

nothing but empty promises whispers

of heaven, angels, stacks of old cash,

tells you go back to your home, tells you

you don’t belong here, calls you

c-words f-words t-words, draws black white

portraits of you looking damn ugly,

doesn’t even get your name right on the

documents that throw you like

a limp meteor into burgeoning magma & they

stand + smile + laugh + point fingers &

your cigarette burns through, crumbles

like ashes in your hands that bleed,

prune, wrinkle, curl over your heart at the

sight of red white blue even though

you have a different anthem but you whisper to me,

a little proud & jolly & golden, that

you’re already at home.