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1 poem
Grace Marie Liu

Grace Marie Liu is a Chinese American poet from Michigan. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Kissing Dynamite, Vagabond City Lit, The Minnesota Review, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter at @graceewrites, where she tweets about almond butter and occasionally her writing.


This winter, I am a banana-bellied skeleton

          with bones as brittle as a boy. The snow angels I’ve built–

lactic bodies curdling in the hollow season.

          I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be whole. I’d rather become

a conception: small-boned, soft, summerish

          girl draped in polyester namesake, one size too small. Listen,

the light bends a certain way and I’m back

          to daily doses of grease dripping off each pickled knuckle,

hunger outlining my skin like a birthmark. It’s over


          dinner my mother tells me to cut dairy, her lips

thinning into wilted bouquet stems. I knew

          she liked the idea–her daughter turning rawboned,


birdlike. Am I hopeless for wanting to become everything

          and nothing all at once. The doctor says You are living

to die which is to say that anorexia is a hollow


          bullet & I am the gun & this feast has all been

imaginary. Can’t you see I was my mother’s

          greedy American girl? Tell me she would be proud.


Tell me she would take in a daughter

          who isn’t her. On second thought, give me an ugly truth

in an arrowhead fist. If nothing else, how I dug up



          so much death just for this drought to bury us.

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