Sharon Lin


A cat licks my nipple during sex.

This is not a euphemism
for the sound of grooming

is quite like cunnilingus
Both involve tongues.

One tongue has barbs.

I do not enjoy metaphors
or tongues.

I am still new to sex
with women. More at stake.

Personhood in balance.
How much does it matter

to be queer.
Contemplating Taiwan

land of rabbit goddesses
and lesbians. I suppose I inflate

my perception of her.
To make a goddess

of a poet
or a pussy. It is sacrilege

to the cat gods, the Egyptian
and the Japanese. How do

their spines fit into any shape.
Mine only fits

into tangents.
I tell the mathematician

and she laughs. It is easy
to please spines

Not so much a woman.



My Bisexuality Wavers

Depending on the media I am consuming
then. I am horny for a man

or maybe I am just horny for anything
to subjugate me to a place

I have forgotten. Truly
I am forgetting that this earth

is merely a liminal space. That it is bounded
by time—a nearly infinite constraint

yet finite. I apply boundary
conditions on my conditional

sexuality and find a superposition.
I am Schrodinger’s Vagina. I am

a heresy. I burn shame
in a paper cup and toss the cup

into a dumpster can
my grandmother uses to burn her wishes

for the gods. Some say this is
a worse offense. I say it is

preventative. In heaven I wish
for every possibility to manifest.



Sharon Lin is an essayist and poet. Her work appears in The New York Review of Books, Sine Theta, The Adroit Journal, and elsewhere and is anthologized in Best New Poets 2021 and Voices of the East Coast. She lives in New York City.