In the death of the sun is where we will see
the true light
your hair clusters like a crush of grapes and I
will drain them
into a stream of sweet worship, stinging the cuts
made by our foolish
acts, all the stupid things we’ve done, leaning on
the edge of moral
or mortal. The sap of our insides leak like
wine, pungent
in our noses, iron sharp in the tips hot in the mouth
and threatening to spill.
I’ll test the blade by piercing the skin, the veins
bursting, splices
throbbing, raise a glass to our blackened bodies
teetering
on the edge of the fire that will feel like ice as our
skin warps to the song
of our vices. Raise a glass, and I’ll drink to this; to bathe in the glory
and to drown it out.
CADENCE CHUNG
Wellington, NZ
