I D K I S S U E 5
is not a term for how we'll meet,
pixel to pixel,
biography over biology,
but the stretches between your fingers,
taut, wobbling when flicked
with my own.
Inner elbow. Philtrum. A-
erogenous zones. My hips sweat with potential
beneath the futility of
my ceiling fan.
How many people on the street
will look up and see my feet stamped against the window
while I lie upended in bed
like a question mark,
head hanging off foot, upside-
down face reddening
in the mirror?
If you invert the character for "luck"
it will arrive at your door.
If you’d like to
we could dance in the park with our shirts off,
bob in the public pool like rotten eggs.
I am drawn to how I might fit you in my life,
pull you through a needle's eye
to hem the edges of my desire, no, my desire
for desire, a fitted sheet curling at the edges.
A robot, trembling, as robots do.
Julie Chen is from San Jose, CA, and lives in Brooklyn, NY, where she works as a paralegal. Her work has been published in Up the Staircase Quarterly and Hyphen.