issue two / celestial
Opulence
Lauren Zhu
It is a Tuesday morning when she decides she will unpeel
the sheen of fish scales
from her throat. (This is the first
step to perfection.) She skews the
metallurgy of her décolletage,
reveals
gleaming skin. The mark where the
knife creased her neck pinks
under the bathroom light. (The memory
of the incision stings more than
the fading scar. She feels it in
striations down her
throat.) She forgets the taste of
anything physical. This is
a feeling she mourns on her tongue.
She holds a
frosted bottle of spirits to her
lips, the liquid runs down her
throat. (She says this is to disinfect
the surgical wounds. This is a
lie, and the second step to muddied
perfection.) Since the surgery,
she consumes spirits only. Her house is filled with
mirrors; she stands in front of a
reflective wall, skimming her tender
skin, opening her mouth, checking
her throat.
A pale white stone studs
her uvula. Transient light shines against
the opal.
(Her house is startling bright in the day, but when
the sun sets, each wall is a
tunnel of dark.)
At night she suckles
another bottle. When she swallows
her throat clinks inside her head,
so loud, she drops the bottle,
covers her ears, from the opal,
from the shattered bottle.
This is the last time she swallows.
(This is the final step to perfection.)
the sheen of fish scales
from her throat. (This is the first
step to perfection.) She skews the
metallurgy of her décolletage,
reveals
gleaming skin. The mark where the
knife creased her neck pinks
under the bathroom light. (The memory
of the incision stings more than
the fading scar. She feels it in
striations down her
throat.) She forgets the taste of
anything physical. This is
a feeling she mourns on her tongue.
She holds a
frosted bottle of spirits to her
lips, the liquid runs down her
throat. (She says this is to disinfect
the surgical wounds. This is a
lie, and the second step to muddied
perfection.) Since the surgery,
she consumes spirits only. Her house is filled with
mirrors; she stands in front of a
reflective wall, skimming her tender
skin, opening her mouth, checking
her throat.
A pale white stone studs
her uvula. Transient light shines against
the opal.
(Her house is startling bright in the day, but when
the sun sets, each wall is a
tunnel of dark.)
At night she suckles
another bottle. When she swallows
her throat clinks inside her head,
so loud, she drops the bottle,
covers her ears, from the opal,
from the shattered bottle.
This is the last time she swallows.
(This is the final step to perfection.)
issue two / celestial
dawn
Lauren Zhu
i filter tadpoles / between my fingers, cold
bodies / but alive / bodies / pressed together. /
i remember the / mist of their birth. this was
the first time / this is the last time / i see you, /
coddled against your / mother's breast and /
swaddled in the fog / of dawn. / these tadpoles
came to / me in spring, when the sun / set,
when dark bloomed against your / childhood
home. / bombs breaking the peace / of the
pond. i taste the sirens / silence / from here. /
these swimming babes sprout / legs from their
bodies like stemming / flowers. / your mother
weeps for your body / in the frost of dawn, /
your petals white with icing. / they sweep /
your ashes / from the / frontline. / i tower over
the pond / in prayer, asking the sun / to dust /
your sleeping eyelashes / with dew.
bodies / but alive / bodies / pressed together. /
i remember the / mist of their birth. this was
the first time / this is the last time / i see you, /
coddled against your / mother's breast and /
swaddled in the fog / of dawn. / these tadpoles
came to / me in spring, when the sun / set,
when dark bloomed against your / childhood
home. / bombs breaking the peace / of the
pond. i taste the sirens / silence / from here. /
these swimming babes sprout / legs from their
bodies like stemming / flowers. / your mother
weeps for your body / in the frost of dawn, /
your petals white with icing. / they sweep /
your ashes / from the / frontline. / i tower over
the pond / in prayer, asking the sun / to dust /
your sleeping eyelashes / with dew.
Lauren Zhu (she/her) is a writer from New York. Her writing appears in celestite poetry, Eunoia Review, ONE ART, among others.