the yaoguai is the color of frosting, his eyes
the color of licorice. he cuts his cheek on me,
rotten, in the valley of negev. there’s nothing biblical in him,
though. he rests on my thigh. the yaoguai keeps his gaze low,
his hair the color of night. keeps his voice low, too. i’m lowly for
his lotus feet. the yaoguai tells me nothing nothings, luring
me into the necro, the yoking. unlucky and un-ugly,
the yaoguai is vile, he’s vigiling,
he’s the crush of my lungs in on themselves.
the next life unveils itself, renting open
like rice fields, like lemon rinds,
through the yaoguai. his lashes are the color of lace, his teeth
the color of christmas lights. i vow myself to him, the yaoguai;
thrilling thralling. i vow myself to him because it feels right,
because it feels natal, because it feels like nectar in the throat.