The 2River View 19.4 (Summer 2015)

Fang Bu


Me and the boys,
we talk dirty and drink
anything in the house
that isn't corked 'cause
the screw's busted
and I'm lazy
and twist-top Merlot
gets the tongue wagging
just as good as top-shelf
scotch I forgot to buy.

These nights we set
my neighbors' ears ablaze
with our coarse smattering:
obscenities, Spanish, Hebrew,
me too sober for Chinese,
too drunk for French,
settling somewhere in between
Chaucer and death metal,
though at least my pipes
are too lubed to sing

Like a loose canary
from a mine shaft:
been through hells the others
don't know, shouldn't care,
and so have they,
but we don't discuss ugly
like a woman's affairs,
fouled laundry no place
for live wire and grease
and a 3-dog night.

Only the waking is hard:
4AM and no you
to calm the liquor-dreams,
catch my filthy mind,
ask me what I meant
in my polyglot ramblings
splattering the toilet bowl,
but stopping to admire
my tight ass. Boy,
I loved being your girl.


Saturdays are risky.
Saturdays I stumble
out of liquor dreams
wanting my piano
and a dose of poems,
trip over the Raiden-cat
who doesn't know
the word "Father," only
the men in Mommy's
life fleeting as spring
over the East River,
Saturdays I remember

Your hands touching
curve of hip, tangle
of thigh, that smile
after the kiss it took
a week to plan
and my clumsiness
as always a third
party to be gotten
over, after all that,
a salute. The excavation
gone to completion,
you spoke the words.

A genie rose shrieking
from the bedside lamp,
"Not true." I know,
still I gave you
benefit of a doubt:
no doubt you loved
within that moment,
your flesh in mine
unfurling together an eternity,
our love was eternal
for a moment. Trouble is,
Saturdays, I love still.

Fang Bu is the author of Spring Cleaning. She currently lives and works in New York City.

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