Grace Marie Liu
That Time
I was apologizing before I learned
to whistle. Then, I was a chronic hummer.
I was starfished in March with nothing
to lose but my head. I was theorizing
the direction of the wind–perpendicular to my mother.
Mitski said There’s nothing left for you so I skipped
stones in Lake Michigan and lived
off birdseed and hummus. So what if I couldn’t
swim? I was constructing boneyards
between campgrounds. I was writing
ghosts like skeletons like contrails like lacunas
between my thighs, then rewriting myself in
-to something tiny, something tapered. The tally
marks corroded, the days slow and whittling.
No one looked for me. I know, I know, I know.
I was apologizing before I learned
to whistle. Then, I was a chronic hummer.
I was starfished in March with nothing
to lose but my head. I was theorizing
the direction of the wind–perpendicular to my mother.
Mitski said There’s nothing left for you so I skipped
stones in Lake Michigan and lived
off birdseed and hummus. So what if I couldn’t
swim? I was constructing boneyards
between campgrounds. I was writing
ghosts like skeletons like contrails like lacunas
between my thighs, then rewriting myself in
-to something tiny, something tapered. The tally
marks corroded, the days slow and whittling.
No one looked for me. I know, I know, I know.
Taxidermy
Between a grass blade of snowfall and birdsong, my mother
teaches me to slick white
cream across my legs. It ends with my thighs
snapped shut and her shriek
skittering across the tiles like wildfire.
I am always the watchdog, or witch, or heart
-less daughter.
Still, my mother knows apology
as in hunger, takes me to dinner only to run
over a greyhound. I do not
cry, only watch its yellow tongue spill
from its jaw-- how its paws
plant themselves into cement like wildflowers. She leaves her ribs in Texas
Roadhouse. That night, I witness
my mother stab each baby's
breath into a freckled jar, splintering
sunflower seeds between her canines. My self-help books
advised me to think fresh -water and grow
fat on fried eggs and raw milk.
Naturally, I forgot
about dead animals, the lot of them.
But spring came early
and I bailed, again. I didn't want to burn.
teaches me to slick white
cream across my legs. It ends with my thighs
snapped shut and her shriek
skittering across the tiles like wildfire.
I am always the watchdog, or witch, or heart
-less daughter.
Still, my mother knows apology
as in hunger, takes me to dinner only to run
over a greyhound. I do not
cry, only watch its yellow tongue spill
from its jaw-- how its paws
plant themselves into cement like wildflowers. She leaves her ribs in Texas
Roadhouse. That night, I witness
my mother stab each baby's
breath into a freckled jar, splintering
sunflower seeds between her canines. My self-help books
advised me to think fresh -water and grow
fat on fried eggs and raw milk.
Naturally, I forgot
about dead animals, the lot of them.
But spring came early
and I bailed, again. I didn't want to burn.
--
Grace Marie Liu is a Chinese-American poet from Michigan. A 2024 YoungArts National Winner with Distinction in Poetry and an alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program and the Iowa Young Writers' Studio, her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Minnesota Review, Sundog Lit, and Up the Staircase Quarterly, among others. She serves as an Editor-in-Chief for Polyphony Lit.
Grace Marie Liu is a Chinese-American poet from Michigan. A 2024 YoungArts National Winner with Distinction in Poetry and an alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program and the Iowa Young Writers' Studio, her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Minnesota Review, Sundog Lit, and Up the Staircase Quarterly, among others. She serves as an Editor-in-Chief for Polyphony Lit.