After the Prolonged Tide in the Dusk

Chia-Lun Chang

after The Great Retreat


you come alone with showers, always trek in December with chilblains, and are granted
giant maggots. I say, go away, I never belong to you, bear my fingers, my foot, and leave
the cell open 

in a tiny and moist room, bed to bed on an island, the wave flickered the sight of
the dawn, cannonballs sing 

after the prolonged tide in the dusk 

all the places where I walk by are consumed: freckles bridge on my back from
overexposure, leeches grow from my shoulders, my legs sweep dirt over and raise fungus,
vultures peck my forehead 

under the narrow and dry farmland, seeds by seeds, pesticide carries lung cancer to Mr.
Veteran’s mailbox, long rifles dance 

I sit on the hills and have my wrists coiled with newspaper as if I am well-known. As if
my head is worth thousands of
Huan-a villages. As if my traditional movement drops
the beat. Stay joy 

as if it should happen on time. I sit on the hills and coil newspaper into a wristband,
switch to dark-mode pupils, fold my tongue to a silk fountain, you want to drink me, say,
cell is open 

At the moment, we are getting married. Your soldier uniform is attached with sweats.
May blows chilly winds. Documented, not a typical penetration. Stay joy, so I can burn
you to the sun. I am all the way naked, as a red moon 

after the prolonged tide in the dusk          In the wedding, everyone dresses in telegraph
and pain reliever