By T.W. Sia

crabgrass. syphilisflower. 
the clap then boom. earth with its crust bitten off. 

some lesions are slow and beautiful. going home after dark.  

forearms. drawing the bow back, meteors shower on the sky.
new year’s eve. kiss again and again  

on the last week of summer camp. 

the word “crush” means it sits in the center of your chest.  

i am trying to measure out crush on my kitchen scale. 
i want enough. i want in fistfuls. 

the first baby tooth comes out. then all the teeth keep coming out, 
like confetti from the mouth. 

all i know about love begins long ago. my father dancing 
in the nightclub. fingers spread the air. confetti rains down. 

my mother would have married the man she loved. she could tell me
how it feels to kiss when you’re dying. 

i said, all i know about love begins long ago. in 1998, steve michael 
lays to rest in front of the white house. 

his mother walks him down lafayette park before sending him off. down the aisle. homebound.  

i was shaped from the language of hands. holding. AIDS memorial quilt. 
lying down together in churches. confetti. throwing parties to the wind. 

i said, all i know is that i’m in love with forever. 
exploding slowly. my ancestors need me  

to dance around my bedroom in my ratty underwear with holes. until dawn 
i’m king of prussia. i’m the forever. 

waiting for you to light up my phone. rockets coming home. fireworks 
in a long, drawn-out absence. angels gleaming in the gutter. 

i’m in forever. supine on the side of a hill. english daisies bloom 
through my body like gummata. i am burning up without consequence. 

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T.W. Sia is from Myanmar. He holds a BA from Swarthmore College and is currently studying medicine at Stanford University. His most recent poems can be found in Sundog Lit, Tab Journal, and elsewhere.