Three new poems by Garreth Chan, exploring sex work and sexual labor.
Tonight, the TV reports, herds of cattle throw themselves into the flames of the Amazon and roll out in batches …
Donald was wearing the jeans that showed off
His butt. His shirt said, “Meet Me At The Sex Club.”
you remind me to feel like
शहद, and i don’t need to translate
My Amma’s Malayalam is Trivandrum slang,
shifting between simple
churidar and formal sari in a blink.
I lost the metaphor
along with some luggage
that I never carried
I was never meant to bear
and for you, i am tender –
bruised grape lip
bitten. mind on heart; junebug
Purchased her cheaply at the Food Emporium last night.
Freezer door ajar.
Dig past thighs of chicken,
bottle of Vodka,
to get to her.
this will not be your diaspora poem:
we have enough milk & honey
at the grocery store
and golden nubian gap-toothed queens who long for their mother
The pink flower mantis always remembers
his freckled purple orchid and her petals
which held raindrop
full with dewy fortunes
for his praying hands.
I hate those
hockey jersey toting
“what’s up, fag?”
my feminism –
now don’t be scared by that
no pussies allowed
Grab this sick this
Bittersweet easing out
Of animal and
Into self-ness …
These screens are too piercing for the / Wild jungle boy’s eyes that dart / From void to matter and see things …
I am stretched out like a supple canvas for her / Massaging / We liked colors and shapes …
1 is me
/ but, 1 is you
/ thus 1 + 1 by no means equals 2…