I bear elk bones and elephant tusks
in ivory stomach pits scalped
by broadswords. I imprison Goliath
in the slip of my sickled-cell throat—
a dungeon of behemoth flesh.
Never-lit candles for Hanukkah
bone the marrow of my knees,
honey cream wax sticks piled
like glued corkscrews.
Mama stitches metal barbs onto gashes,
forgets to seam one: canyon bats and
genocides siphon out of arteries
like crane flocks. On Tuesday,
I net them back in paper-thin.
—Alice Xu loves food and puns. She currently reads for The Blueshift Journal.