Atom Cheung
FORTY-ONE
Under pot lights like halos, I
stepped into the late orange
hours wearing all I’d ever
desired: polyester wrists,
polished fingers clawing at
the face of a flickering body
that smudged a child forever
falling into a truth. Had I
hovered I would have made
it sooner to the spectral
closet. Long skirts sway
in shades of green, some
vivaciously emerald they
bleed purple, seeping into
the fabric from within.