Elaine Liu

Ordnance

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2024: VOL. 39.

At twenty I practice unlearning her body.
The same black roots spilling
down my scalp. The same hand over
my mouth except it is my hand
and I am not war supply.
When dreaming grows old
I count notches down her bowstring spine
like rings to a poisoned trunk.
Which child she lost walking, slipped
out between her legs and dried
like a sardine. Which child
she never named. Which child
she killed when he asked about his father.
Which child
she does not remember.
There is a beehive where her uterus is,
filled with nothing sweet, no honey
but a wasp kneeling on her arm, her blood
greasy like tarred congee. The cells sting.
She will not stop humming.

。

From Shanghai my mother tells me
I should shut her in a chest
and toss her in the Pacific. She
is not mine to carry. I know
She will float black to my doorstep,
drowned and terrible, wet tissue

pawing at my knees.
I am afraid of hands
sprouting up from the ground like land mines.
I am afraid of men the way
a rabid animal loves the zookeeper.
I am afraid of washing my hair
and the water running black.
Let me tell you what a Chinese
vampire is: a woman
who looks into the mirror
and sees too many of her selves.

Let me define monsters:
whatever you have made us into. 

Elaine Liu is a third-year undergraduate student studying neuroscience and English at Colby College in Maine. She is a poet and a storyteller who draws inspiration from her experiences living on both sides of the Pacific. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on journals such as The Bellingham Review and Sink Hollow.