A surface sin, a tattooed connective tissue of thought
Or light, a skin effect of undulating conversations,
Current news head lice. Wavelengths saturate spines.
I skin dive for that which darkens by the sun.
I wear no suit, only a mask. It’s figurative, I am afraid,
As skin-deep, as personal and sacred, as my skin.
A public sphere, a globule of difference.
No declared cells or flags in the shape of a sickle,
Nor a bigger slice of the pie nor a bigger pie.
No week or a month or March. No march
Or demonstration or PAC. No Pacman
Or grand theft. No automatic lists, less repeating
Redundancy, thinking in a tank, statistically regressing
Analyses, shifting arms. Calling to them, to teach his own.
I’m holding a stake. I’ll believe it when I dig it.
The color of my sickness, its colorblindness a guise, or
A disguise, Hey hey hey, you can’t catch me. I’m syntax-free.
Skin taut by surgery. Taunted, who has a stake in my skin.
MORE WORK BY CELINA SU
At the Burmese Refugee Project
(the Pomelos [Poems] page has links to many more poems)
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