Thursday, March 17, 2022

Projector by Cathy Linh Che


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
The air was cool,
my face on fire.
I wore my woman’s mask.
I was ten years old.
When he kissed me, the edges
of our magnetic fields touched.
Inside, my heart compressed
into a black hole.

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