Michelle Lin
Punctum Caecum
The rain falling back into the dock. Recollection too
is a downpour, one I have cleaved against
in this waterless state we have made. Never mind
I’ve been mugged in a house and home made
of water I thought had been lined
with a forever blue. Lips against ankle, after-salt
remembering first wound. To tell him too—just
a dream, as I fall back from his gaze
and into salty Muni seats. Nothing romantic with
foam gray on tides. Almost everything is romantic,
but. What it is, everything, but. Hand held slightly
to the right and missing a finger. Violence
broken into unfamiliar syntax is still
a violence. If I bled, would it be
when I did not love him enough. What I saw
sitting up, looking down,
when I had crowned myself in the blood
of a man. What it is, refuse
at the expense of another. What I saw through
my body, the blue, the sky.
In Any Other Context, I’d Love To
strap knives to the bottom of my shoes
and go forth, but this is not what this
sport is. And then there’s the tricky history
of thin ice and drowning and hypothermia,
though now we’re housed in this mall
between the Gap and Macy’s, but why
anyone would want to flirt with death,
as we’re flung farther and further with
new loosened inertia, is beyond me.
It’s like thank God for the internet, but even
with that at our fingers, we’re still throwing
money to spend time in other people’s shoes,
which honestly is a disgusting act.
Each season, puffed like penguins,
except less cute and far less agile. You know,
in any other context, meaning
ours, penguins cheat on their partners,
which couldn’t be further from the truth
even if you strapped boots to it and flung it
flailing into a petrified lake. The internet says
easily, we like to share our pain with birds
which is why we’d flatten them into being
just like us. The internet hardly says
we also do this to masses of people.
Which is not to say certain people are
like penguins. No one is saying anything
is equal to anything here, but one moment
of ice skating is like repeating
middle school four more times, and
why would we want to reprise that nostalgia
together in this cold ass room, going
around in circles? Middle School
Michelle does not understand this yet.
She’s at the point in her life, where
she’d offer someone else her shoes
to try not out of kindness, but
hope. And penguins don’t cheat, but
have learned up to seven different
dances for fishing depending on the level
of oil slick, which is a kind of shiny hope
not unlike the gleam on my and my
best friend’s nose when we slept over
seven years later and kissed.
I’m no penguin, but was called
a cheating whore anyway, when I tried
to tell him I was sorry for loving someone
other than him, meaning, myself.
This new person I love asked me
to write this poem, which isn’t to say
I am trying on another voice, but that
I’d sit here awhile instead of zooming
forth and forth from what I did
not know back then, as I pulled on the heaviest
rentals smell of toe jam and nachos
and slid out between the ice and lights
and just past pubescent boys, and smiled.
Michelle Lin is the author of A House Made of Water (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2017), a lyrical examination of Asian American identity, gender and daughterhood, the inheritance of stories, and survival from trauma. Her latest poems can be found in HEArt, Apogee, Powder Keg Magazine, and more. She has performed for Kearny Street Workshop’s APAture, grlhood—redefining the I // here I am, Litquake, and more. She is a Kundiman fellow. Learn more at michellelinpoet.wordpress.com.