SEVEN-TEN SPLIT
big strike gold rush & any second now it’s gonna kick
in & down, torch red taillights through blinds which slice
across your cheeks—god, you are even prettier than the
mechanic said to believe—what a thing to throw, but it’s
up now & i’m still frightened there are children around.
fake ebonite around fingers & you say i’ve gotta make nice
with the soda jerks, my turn to slip a hand where it ends
up, guzzles itself away in the end, in that way it always must—
the nice i make is so polite our palms start itching for the fire
extinguisher. come closer, come slugging around in your gore
tex lamb leather boots, wrench-handed & tripped on the leash
you tie so loose. i believe you—i do—i know better than not
to shine myself into softwood golden as you swing shoulders
out sockets, sludgy eyes unopen for even one frame. creaking
at the hip, face squarely indented by the pressure of eyeglass
nosepads—you see what i’ve seen, what i’ve done with a fist
stuck between slats, small & unheeding with attention latched
onto the blue-grounded screen above & another equipment-piece
tumbles, dispensed back. you hear how it is, see black spinning
into gutter—these puddles sighing when sloshed onto me.
DREAM-PUCK LOGIC
good shot sharp banked at the buzzer smack between
slewfoot steve’s broad-bladed shoulders before kissing
crossbar & then you at sixteen tender & brick-backed
sloppier than you were gunning for. cold hand snaked
up suede skirt & what else do you remember. the city
you grew up in still greets you with white salt & seediness
in heat. come back. it’s missed you hard & slaps you so.
the sale in the grocery shop can’t be passed on & while
investigating heirloom tomatoes they become sauced start
looking malformed misfired more like your baby brother’s
red cotton-socked feet. can’t buy them now not after that.
go back empty & pa pushes a reheated twenty into your
purse says it’s for when you get hungry & could you
please fetch those padlocked pills from the pharmacy.
a fistful will do but do it soon. lap up your stew & go.
steve’s giddyheaded against you spewing chiclets onto ice.
last period’s done & you go home to a fumigation job floor
specked with pests on iridescent backs. sucked a slurpee too
fast & now you gasp green in company. what’s this going on.
tongue’s bitten numb but you’re young still got time to restock
on butterfly razors & clips. if you slick your hair & spit a bit
people might still pay to kiss you. say you saw that shot hit net.
Xiadi Zhai is from Boston, Massachusetts. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, she has recent or forthcoming work in Bennington Review, Court Green, and Quarterly West, among others.
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