Work Text:
Otachi
This is a poem about dead things.
This is a poem about four dead things
in the middle of Hong Kong,
and you are one of them. You
sink a blade into the flesh
of one and your fingernails
into the flesh of another.
Two dead things stare
into the mouth of another universe
and try to make it out alive.
This is a poem about a war.
This is a poem about a war with
no face, a war with a dozen dead
faces carved into your body.
You have lived for so long
with dead things that you
can’t tell the difference
between the ones in front of you,
the ones on your skin,
and the ones in your head.
This is a poem about dead things,
about one dead thing that
followed you home.