jack xi
DOFF
(after “saga” by f. staples & b.k. vaughan)
swimming ionic through the black lack breathing
rain drumming opaque the green face of the sea;
his flippers expand with Upsher’s in water
them rocking like souls untwined from their limbs –
ashore, the camera squints through dark runoff,
missing deep seconds, his movement with his –
* * *
playing with Hazel on a bright beach he almost forgot
he was one of many men who’d never end up with children
even hurtling from home through dawnless intergalactic gaps
sometimes in the darkroom his emotions froze
murmuring everyone in each small image was fine
the lack of war and guilt like the lack in all vacuums:
tenuous. sparse. every world’s a wound, drooling upwards.
* * *
“Nobody but us, huh?”
no winged woman nursing the payoff for their sin, no grins –
just snow and the air short in his gills and silent
Doff readjusting his lens beside him a flower
whose roots had settled in violence
in Doff’s frame is nothing but objects of snow
* * *
quickly deleting his words Upsher’s cursing –
up through death's ragged tunnel Doff sees him – cursing,
unaesthetic with
hate for the editor’s fist –
lurching without sunset
into that airless breathless negative space
Doff can almost smile
(after “saga” by f. staples & b.k. vaughan)
swimming ionic through the black lack breathing
rain drumming opaque the green face of the sea;
his flippers expand with Upsher’s in water
them rocking like souls untwined from their limbs –
ashore, the camera squints through dark runoff,
missing deep seconds, his movement with his –
* * *
playing with Hazel on a bright beach he almost forgot
he was one of many men who’d never end up with children
even hurtling from home through dawnless intergalactic gaps
sometimes in the darkroom his emotions froze
murmuring everyone in each small image was fine
the lack of war and guilt like the lack in all vacuums:
tenuous. sparse. every world’s a wound, drooling upwards.
* * *
“Nobody but us, huh?”
no winged woman nursing the payoff for their sin, no grins –
just snow and the air short in his gills and silent
Doff readjusting his lens beside him a flower
whose roots had settled in violence
in Doff’s frame is nothing but objects of snow
* * *
quickly deleting his words Upsher’s cursing –
up through death's ragged tunnel Doff sees him – cursing,
unaesthetic with
hate for the editor’s fist –
lurching without sunset
into that airless breathless negative space
Doff can almost smile
THE DEVIL WORKS HARDER
(four horns of the devil & the problem of evil)
i. lucifer
it took months to sew on the reversible gold,
velvet turning thick under the palm. fingers with the wet tang
of needles. now brush the blood fuzz down.
you grin a minute,
pit words between the teeth you lathered black:
komrade, lapdance, mothra shawl!
twin wigs sit twitching to the change in the lights.
Yahweh spent months painting photons to lips and wide eyelids,
aeons of eyeless rehearsal before they let there be light. heart beating,
you take a minute to redraw your pentagram thrice.
ii. edensnake
she’s soft, all shawled with pink: headpiece fluting with blossoms
and spined horns, five. she looks at the photos and thinks of new fabrics,
then of small creatures blessed with so many legs.
she charmed arms onto every word,
read lines like pale dew, sewed paper-light wings into crowns.
she thinks of the headline in sharp serifs above,
wry mouth going dry. but, mid-stitch, she remembers how
the children clamoured about her dress and her horns, asked
if she could please read them another book. and of course
she only smiled with dark-glitter lips to say –
yes, yes, obviously i was born with them, and only because you said –
iii. satan
dancing across a continent’s screens she can only think of the city’s dun choler
and the hot lights of evening. in her mind she's in a room like any other motel
and she is wringing off her makeup, her white wig, her twin horns
running shadows down her cheeks like dumb tear trails. hum of dim a/c.
there is music but all she dreams is the dry highway home
and the eyes of black dogs, a disarray of red lace in the dark
under trunk and remnant shine, and belting red-eyed
in a rest stop toilet. and when they restart the cameras
so that God can yell again she cries –
iv. how the hell you gonna love somebody el–
i switch windows in time and whirl to my doorway. my heart is vicing: squeezed gold sequin pouch.
a toothy thing pitted in my chest, chafing flesh under breast – distant from another mouth. still i
heft a smile and tell my sister yes. yes, of course i can read to you now.
(four horns of the devil & the problem of evil)
i. lucifer
it took months to sew on the reversible gold,
velvet turning thick under the palm. fingers with the wet tang
of needles. now brush the blood fuzz down.
you grin a minute,
pit words between the teeth you lathered black:
komrade, lapdance, mothra shawl!
twin wigs sit twitching to the change in the lights.
Yahweh spent months painting photons to lips and wide eyelids,
aeons of eyeless rehearsal before they let there be light. heart beating,
you take a minute to redraw your pentagram thrice.
ii. edensnake
she’s soft, all shawled with pink: headpiece fluting with blossoms
and spined horns, five. she looks at the photos and thinks of new fabrics,
then of small creatures blessed with so many legs.
she charmed arms onto every word,
read lines like pale dew, sewed paper-light wings into crowns.
she thinks of the headline in sharp serifs above,
wry mouth going dry. but, mid-stitch, she remembers how
the children clamoured about her dress and her horns, asked
if she could please read them another book. and of course
she only smiled with dark-glitter lips to say –
yes, yes, obviously i was born with them, and only because you said –
iii. satan
dancing across a continent’s screens she can only think of the city’s dun choler
and the hot lights of evening. in her mind she's in a room like any other motel
and she is wringing off her makeup, her white wig, her twin horns
running shadows down her cheeks like dumb tear trails. hum of dim a/c.
there is music but all she dreams is the dry highway home
and the eyes of black dogs, a disarray of red lace in the dark
under trunk and remnant shine, and belting red-eyed
in a rest stop toilet. and when they restart the cameras
so that God can yell again she cries –
iv. how the hell you gonna love somebody el–
i switch windows in time and whirl to my doorway. my heart is vicing: squeezed gold sequin pouch.
a toothy thing pitted in my chest, chafing flesh under breast – distant from another mouth. still i
heft a smile and tell my sister yes. yes, of course i can read to you now.
Jack Xi (they/he) is a queer Singaporean poet. A member of the writing collective /Stop@BadEndRhymes (stylized /s@ber), they can be found on wordpress under “jackxisg.wordpress.com”. Jack’s been published in OF ZOOS, Wyvern Lit, Perverse, and several Singaporean anthologies. They're a fan of big alien ruins and space operas with glowing swords.