There are women running inside of me slow motion with buckets of sand & other things. What are those bugs that eat their children? I want you to send them this letter. I keep the attic without a roof so that giant babies from other worlds can look inside at all the birds I keep. Some birds without heads. The heads I keep in a jar in a drawer somewhere. I hid those heads because they used to look at me & wish they would get invited to parties. At a certain distance they left taste, you see. Like lemon curd. Giant babies, please pray from me. From me to all large pastries in the mouth of your whatever god. Does He prefer grilled on the side? What are those animals that learn to write & then the scientists tell everyone & children everywhere die of shame? Babies, please see those animals & not me & not the smoke & in retrospect some fire. Pray in your chapelfull of ovens in the dark. Babies, sometimes the birds grow their heads back & wear sweaters & talk about literature in a sort of circle & nobody sees but, slow motion, the women inside of me with palms full of smoking things: beetles in windows, lost hair birds pinking. babies, the beetles live with me. Can I be with them? Live with their constant writing? Ask them to stop complaining that their children taste soft & a little fake? Babies, I hope you are leaving soon & have seen plastic pears to bring back in a bowl. Please go back to your universe & rest your giant heads. You have big sinus cavities, so here are tissues in a box.
Just Another Fetus
Kristin Chang lives in Cupertino, CA. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in BOAAT Journal, Word Riot, Winter Tangerine Review, TheEEEL, and elsewhere. She is looking forward to the next lunar new year. She is located at kristinchang.com.