Ode to Félix González-Torres
lay the body in
all of its glory. A
soft earlobe, blistered
fingertips, a single
eyelash has dropped down
to the chin. A little boy
would come and take a piece--
unravel the paper slowly—giggle
because it is sweet. And he is
right. It was. But at this moment, I do
not wish to take one. When it is not
mine to take. Winter came, but you were kept
warm by the simplicity of touch, the rigidity
of a tongue pressed against yours, sweat accumulating
down your back. Slowly, the sweat became a sopping
wet jacket you had to keep on. A jacket for two: you shared the
same dwindling ferocity, the same wrapping paper in your
pockets, kept buttoned up. But love, you see, lingers past the cellophane.
I think of Hujar and Wojnarowicz—unabashed, relentless—dancing on
the boardwalk at noon. Love bouncing in their plaid pockets, oozing down their
esophaguses, growing into saplings, only then into wilting trees. Loving like this
is futile, weakening—and still everything you did. I see the boy’s blood spilt out on
the sidewalk. His face beaten and his heart laid stripped on the sidewalk. You could never
know the strength of a tongue until you bite down on it, or the fragility of a lover’s touch until he is
gone. What is left of the body gleams, untouched. I think about you until I am jaded, until I give in.
Sophia Liu is a Chinese-American writer and artist from New York. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Sheila Na Gig, opia, Augment Review, Bitter Fruit Review, and elsewhere. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the National Council of Teachers of English, Cisco Writers Club, and Hollins University. She volunteers as a writing teacher for the Princeton Learning Experience and has taught students in the United States and China. She wants a pet cat.
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply.
The Ekphrastic Review
Join us on Facebook: