Feast

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - FANG BU

Some­one must hold it to­gether, lave the smooth an­ces­tral bones in a deco­rous quan­tity of tears pure in salin­ity, acid­ity per­fo­rat­ing ruler-straight slabs in hot loamed earth, smile while carv­ing flesh into soup the more to be en­joyed for smil­ing.

Each week I roll chunks of happy into rice-pow­dered balls, breathe be­fore the tele­phone, my words soft tra­di­tional cakes laced with ben­zos so you may devour them in­stead: the words not the daugh­ter crack­ling on woozy pyre and danc­ing.

No man may have her like this: a balm to soothe the van­i­ties.

When gone the pieces dis­sem­ble, grains and shards, a world of sparks we stop­per ears pre­tend­ing to see: only the mat­ter, oak arms in sun rays, not dark an­tipar­tic­u­late winds or your empti­ness.

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