by Shelley Wong

He goes to her. He goes and so does my hair
the way he likes it. It falls, feather-like, arrow-
ready at my feet. They call me a bird,
but I rust: a dropped key, forgotten
scissors. I make my own forest and coax
thorns, moths, and metal to swarm in my hairnest.
The sky is a door in a sky. I wait
for messages sent by suspended ribbons,
which are the arteries of devotion.
Here are my monkeys and bears, here is
my new face. I go deeper into the trees
when he runs to her. My mouth is full
of watermelon. Its sweetness gone out
like a veladora. I am the horse that runs.

IMAGE: “Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird” by Frida Kahlo (1940).