Ghost Stories (III)
after Tarfia Faizullah
for Pulse, Orlando
it’s June / I wake up / you’re not / in bed I call you / we’re sorry you have reached / I call again / call me
when you get home / turn lights off / I leave for the gas station / I buy you coffee / stay out until it’s
very dark / every face blurry / I grab a stranger / he looks like you / he pushes me to the ground /
he doesn’t / you said you would take me / to your parents next week / it’s June / but there are so
many / flowers on the sidewalk / I go back / lights still off / the radio by the bed / playing the
same song / we heard the other night / the TV flashing again / red / blue / red / blue / red / I
turn it off / I don’t / I try on your jacket / the one you gave me / at the club / I should feel
beautiful / I feel guilty / I wash my hands / I wash them until they’re red / blue / red / red / red /
I lie on the couch / this pillow feels like a stillborn / it’s June / it’s morning / you didn’t touch the
coffee I left / I call you / it’s ok / if your parents don’t support us / I’ll always be with you until /
we’re sorry / I hang up / I don’t / the radio static is you / I leave for breakfast / pass a club / police
out front / I taste hands / everywhere / it’s June / they’re running / no one is / you’re on the floor
/ you’re not / it’s June / I call you / I call you / I call you—
Dress / Skin
Summer 2009, California
all night I can’t sleep, chase
the crows like a lost doe, flickering between
streetlights with my eyes closed. I’m looking for
something lighter than my hands. worship on lonely nights,
a thorned hymn to bite my tongue—a boy touches
my jaw, still bruised from the night I ran
my tricycle down the hills, my ears brushing
gold as I tumbled into the cold headlights
of an ambulance. even now, I watch moonlight
pool around my bedroom, reach over to touch
my reflection, confusing my muddled face
for his. maybe skin is the threshold between knowing
& believing, a torn map trying to remember
itself. every contact I mistake for a heartbeat.
once, while scaling the kitchen stove, I burned both hands
& swore afterwards to be careful of what & who
I touch. still reckless, I whisper
into his left ear & this song unwinds like threads
from a white dress—the one gathering dust
in mother’s closet, the one I shouldn’t wear
but did—he kisses me on the cheek & we turn
bruised light. boy & boy, my face flickering on
his teeth & I scrape my knees as mother pulls
me away—. she says accident & I
only nod, carry his name
as a pebble, something to weigh between rumor
& touch, sunken on my tongue. beneath the muttering
streetlights, the circling moonlight, face
in the limelight, I shave my head. one strand
of hair, then another released
to the sky—half-winged,
into flight.
Spencer Chang is a high school senior from Taipei, Taiwan. His work has appeared in RABBIT, Eunoia Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, and elsewhere. He is a 2021 YoungArts Finalist in Poetry and an alumnus of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program.