Sharon Wang


Here, little girl. Here,
this world, round as a tube of cream.

You rub it on your hand and the friction lessons;
you rub it on and the surface goes soft.

Like nursing a tooth, the feeling never disappears.

Here is the enclosure. Here is the hinge.
You are the carapace and here is irreducible.

It is the cornea and you a menagerie of curiosities.

Close your eyes. Close your eyes.
A silver guillotine falls beneath the lids.

Everything on this side of it is hard and brilliant.

Everything on the other side is soft
and beckons you to touch.

The softer it is,
the more you want to touch.

Ashes, ashes, you roll in the heap of others.

And you are here and you are gone.