Timothy Liu
GREEN CARD
Not trying to
convince the world
how in love we are
with our faces
locked in status-
update sunset porn—
none of the likes
or comments
to be believed
as we cross borders
like aliens
fucking on the run—
FAMILY ROMANCE
Last night, hell
was a garage
band where you
stood playing
all the parts
from maracas
to the cordless
mike while doing
a trippy cover
of "Message
in a Butt Hole"—
your mother
the only member
of the audience
pumping her
fist into the air.
INFIDELITY
He knew their marriage
was over when she started
unscrewing all the bulbs—
the sockets in their walls
overrun by plugs—no room
for a new device unless
another were taken out—
I LOVE MY WIFE
He puts his hands
on my knees and says
“I love my wife!”
He orders Dom Perignon
and baked foie gras,
filet mignon and flaming
cherries jubilee, asks me
to strike the match.
The waiter asks if that
will be all, clearing away
the plates as my lover
signs the check, looking
me straight in the eyes
and saying: “I love
my wife!” He grabs
the rubber ring, pulls
the condom off the tip
of his cock after pulling
out of me and says
“Baby, I’ve got to go,”
leaving me to wonder
what he says to his wife
each night in their bed
when the lights go out.
THE MARRIAGE
Dust mites trapped
inside an oriental rug
sailing in regattas
off to Holy Lands
with an intensity
my husband has never
felt before—tinkling
brass echoing through
my mother’s mouth
as heirloom Limoges
starts to rattle inside
that china cabinet
whose key has gone
missing—offshore
tsunami of her voice
singing hymns
once known by heart
unable to tear
the tiles off the clay
roof of my father’s
ancestral house.
