Mary Wang
Head, Perhaps of an Angel
1.
The muscle divided
scale by scale
tentacle-like
and was hungry.
A smooth foot sipped
the black eye,
stealing
secret light
until a shadow
wrote itself
on the new sun.
Spring unsealed
the tips where
something,
something grows
from its wrists.
2.
Blinking new
amphibian eyes
he made himself
a distance.
The center divided,
legs hung
with fruit.
Mind loomed above
on a long
invisible stalk.
The tongue inside it
never dried.
A taste
of sputum and dew.
The face
a translation.
3.
Points of view
fill the eye
with contagious
hesitation.
I have hurt
my way through.
White-faced cliffs
giant in their loneliness,
faces stiff
with speed.
What tough muscle
envisions these
clouds caught
on stems, their
uneven weights
of color.
4.
I have wind vision.
The zero sun lunges
not to the end
but to the center,
sentence breathed
into blood.
Incandescent
oceans sways.
A marble circles
the equator’s groove.
My shadows won’t
lay straight.
Though I am not
I seem to be rising.
The world grows out of
the bottoms of my feet.