I was tangerine inside the mosque.
Lit up inside, of several generations.†
By being tangerine, I was also olive beneath my
made of bamboo inside the bones and
frayed cheesecloth at the fingertips.
By being a girl and not a color and made up of
curly fries and shot by a man on horseback
By being joined together at the hips with
starlight or jackfruit,
now bowed at the knees inside an oceanís spray.
Lacking a lisp in consonants.
The pith of a fig, inside a honeydew.
Keeping time inside the mouth, counting sugar
arriving at the ph of a jackalís tear.
Neither color nor thing, a slice of jade.
The color of before a tree.
Tucked into a catacomb, tied together with poison
ivy or twine.
The skin peels without sunlight or shade.
I bleed silk curtains and cinnamon sticks,
words being both perfume and
antipathy, built to last.
Out of a fish called
inside the day a boat collapsed
made of dry sand and rushes
the sky broke
into one thousand self portraits
and disappeared like a wound in the smallest
hint of wind
from inside the fishís eye
rows of corn were black not white
a ball bounced and echoed itself just the way
a hundred tumblers fell against a hundred keys
and even the alphabet was stunned
when I laughed and I did it right out of my belly
a canoe tipped
and let the salt out of the sea
the sun ran to attend, the frogs leapt out of
but I couldnít help it
and I couldnít stop
Sueyeun Juliette Lee currently resides in Northampton,
Massachusetts. She edits Corollary Press, which she launched in 2005. Her
work has most recently appeared in Coconut,
26, and is forthcoming in Chain.