Daughter of Bays and Hills
In my hometown, God takes the shape of a cleaver.
So the first time I lied was to a rooster. I promised
not to watch but its blood arced ways, thin and bright.
There’s a way a cleaver rests when it’s not in use—
forgiveness, if held right. In the alley behind the tailor’s,
I press my mouth to a girl’s throat and taste chalk.
She wears her brother’s shirt, sun-bleached rope, sleeves
too long. Someone burns joss paper upstairs, someone
is crying, but not for us. She said it was my past life,
a midwife for drowned girls. Somewhere in 云南,
South of the clouds, a mountain is named after a
girl who refused marriage. She burned herself and became
the fog that unbuttons your shirt on the hike up.
We barter time by its absences, golden and mid-knot.
Let a man swallow fire and offer me peony from pork
skin, freshest before fear. Take it and let him smile teeth black.
Say guilt. Say salt. Say your name under running taps, steaming.
Say daughter and hear the door shut behind you. Before
I tasted truth in almond oils Ma rubbed on my joint, I bit
into the pit and cracked a molar. The dentist said I had
an old soul and three cavities. All things will pass through.
A temple ceiling collapses and the gods fall into bowls of
rice. No one prays. Everyone eats.
Everything will end with starch.
So the first time I lied was to a rooster. I promised
not to watch but its blood arced ways, thin and bright.
There’s a way a cleaver rests when it’s not in use—
forgiveness, if held right. In the alley behind the tailor’s,
I press my mouth to a girl’s throat and taste chalk.
She wears her brother’s shirt, sun-bleached rope, sleeves
too long. Someone burns joss paper upstairs, someone
is crying, but not for us. She said it was my past life,
a midwife for drowned girls. Somewhere in 云南,
South of the clouds, a mountain is named after a
girl who refused marriage. She burned herself and became
the fog that unbuttons your shirt on the hike up.
We barter time by its absences, golden and mid-knot.
Let a man swallow fire and offer me peony from pork
skin, freshest before fear. Take it and let him smile teeth black.
Say guilt. Say salt. Say your name under running taps, steaming.
Say daughter and hear the door shut behind you. Before
I tasted truth in almond oils Ma rubbed on my joint, I bit
into the pit and cracked a molar. The dentist said I had
an old soul and three cavities. All things will pass through.
A temple ceiling collapses and the gods fall into bowls of
rice. No one prays. Everyone eats.
Everything will end with starch.
Spring 2026
Penny Wei is from Shanghai and Massachusetts. She can be seen on Dialogist, New Plains Review, The Central Dissent: A Journal of Gender and Sexuality and elsewhere.
Art: Pamela Hobart Carter
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper