Margaret Zhang used to go by Mar-gar-gar. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Glass Kite Anthology and has attended writing workshops at the Iowa Young Writers' Studio and the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop, among others. Read her work in SOFTBLOW, DIALOGIST, Gigantic Sequins, Words Dance, The Foyle Young Poets Anthology, and other journals. Next year, she plans to attend the University of Pennsylvania, where she will continue to appreciate memes.

Also by Margaret Zhang: Straw Theory Three Poems Moon Anthem

Margaret Zhang


The night rinses out the cotton. We take small steps towards the skyline & still end up at the door to your room. Still. Your mother is still home. No, the night would be nothing without its mother's fragrance. Which side of your room screams nirvana is hard to say. Inside the mouth, my cheeks always swelled from the smoke as I watched you undress. I would go home with rashes on my cheeks — so flaky & wine-red that smolder might as well have been spilling from my blush. My father thought I was drinking & I let him believe it, even though watered down licorice was the only taste my tongue knew. I had no other explanation. Alviso does not know viscosity. How childish the lava lamp beside your bed made me feel. How puckish the purple liquid as it orbited through the neck of the lamp. & how we'd slumped against the swings years ago, mock pilot licenses in our jeans. Even our bruised & splintered thighs we called flight. Outside the mouth, your mother & uncle would roam like mannequins on wheels. Their eyes did not follow me when I was expelled from the mouth. They did not mind the stranger in their house. Perhaps I was the mannequin. The sky clenches like a fist & stamps the last of its ink onto the graying pavement. & the night rinses out the horizon until it is shrunken & pale. It rinses out the song. It rinses out the room & all it has ever held.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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