by Victoria Chang

We drive into Ron’s house through the front door up the marble
stairs.  The tires don’t damage the stairs.  We don’t slip.  I don’t know
where my child is, but I think she is standing at a sink pouring water
into and out of a cup.  Ron is old.  Ron tells me he will leave his wife.
His favorite bird is the mocking one.  In one dream, he kisses me.
We are naked.  I take his mouth’s wages.  In another, we talk in the
kitchen shaped with black granite about the disproportion of Dora
the Explorer’s head.  The door opens and his wife appears, her hair a
carcass brown.  I like this story better.  Because I shake her hand,
walk out the door.  My hand breaks in hers like glass but my blood
tastes like a daiquiri.  I imagine his mouth and its prolonged aperture,
the unoccupied space where his tongue sits, its taste buds, small
flasks of bursting balls.