Ode to Félix González-Torres, by Sophia Liu

Ode to Félix González-Torres

There
 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

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.