The eye-trunks, grasping each other tightly, and the visible wet air exhale. (2022)
If there is a dead thing still rotting (2021)
Evacuate the bones, let the skin hang dry. (2023)
Evacuation
No you don’t live here anymore. This house
is a ship that has parted. When you wake up
from a thousand-year slumber, the world will be
a less content version of its current self. Or raining fire,
the mystic says. There will be men dressed in blisters hobbling
through the streets like smashed marionettes. Such fury
fuels the house adrift, the house cobwebbed but wanting
of visitors. Though the panels are flailed by leaky
acid and you are sitting there while the burns kiss you
through flesh. Though unnamed creatures with sprawling legs
wrap themselves around each window. Wild
are the spinning hands of a fevered clock
rippling through shingles. Every rumble should
suggest feel. Sometimes a hunger moves
through your belly but nothing tears. Evacuate the bones,
let the skin hang dry. A pale flag upon a once body. Uninhabited.
What stillness will love you now: nobody, no one, nothing.
—Muriel Leung
Bone Confetti
earspace