Writing When I Should Be On A Diet

Carrie Chang

On a blue Izod pillow,

I will lurch for time, abetting

Ghosts and dreaming

Of the men I will meet

In the metro station selling

Lemons and limes—some quixby

In their step, putting on airs of the motherland,

In chipper chinglish, they will take my hand,

And dance in union, say, “Ain’t it grand?”

The ice cream dissolved in my stomach

Like an if and &, pistachio and custard

Now boulevard bitch, on these days,

I will find my niche, sampling

Boogie-man donuts

From the slim-woman shelf,

My elbows anointed with a viennese

Snail parfum that sings for roses,

On the bed, my teddy-pig

Will be doing poses, some thing

To be doing the Lotus on a sanguinary

Day, when outlaws have their vision,

And life a ragamuffin’s cliché,

The petals of the flower scour,

Like fatal bits of heavy metal,

Oh me oh my