Projector by Cathy Linh Che

Projector

 

While I slept, my cousin placed

his mother’s mask on me,

asked me if I loved him.

 

He wore wolf ears.

I willed him to hear the change

in atmosphere, the tilt of air

 

—no, no, no—

 

his finger slid

under the white

underwear.

 

The air was cool,

my face on fire.

 

I wore my woman’s mask.

Underneath,

I was ten years old.

 

When he kissed me, the edges

of our magnetic fields touched.

Inside, my heart compressed

 

into a black hole.