Joyce Chong


confession is a knife-dug gut.
we cut to get to the pit,
to scrape the bloody seed
out from ribs, to plant


to plant something
like newness.


if you know the taste of confession,
imagine its salt. imagine it a crystal
sharp against your tongue. imagine its
melting anarchy as you spit the thing,
bloodied and burnt from its struggle
up your throat.


your raw voice,
your emptied jar.


these are just
tiny anomalies,
coliforms in the water,
the ghosts in the kitchen.
they aspire to something
greater than ethereality:
how to be virus
how to unfold
how to live