Holly Zhou

you suck at sleeping as much as i do.

because i never have dreams

that are not nightmares, i thought yesterday

was real. in my dream, like in real life, 

we scrambled over rocks, traversing

quartzite conglomerate, dirt-dusted &

laughing, trying our best not to fall. when we tired

of holding on, we caught the train back to Brooklyn,

exiting into a mall. i’m upstairs, you said, striding

onto the escalator. that’s when i knew

we weren’t real; you live between gardens

beneath the ground floor & nowhere 

near a shopping complex.

i must miss you. the last time i slept

in your basement, we drank the last of the wine

you brought from Greece. i borrowed your pants

& we traveled an hour to the edge of a crowd 

in Bushwick, where you taught me how to 

dance. you told me about your dates & we

debated matters of the greatest

desire. when is attraction unethical? 

would i ever date a white man?

you know that i’ve loved people 

i wish i didn’t. my thirties are way better

than my twenties, you said. it’s still hard for me

to see more than a day ahead, but i believe you. 

what does it all mean? above us, smoke hangs 

against neon, hazy emerald & red like 

our favorite kind of Hong Kong flick starring 

Tony Leung’s eyes, gang fights, motorbikes, & misaligned 

romance. skeptics, we studied the menu:

how much lychee do they mix in the martinis 

anyway? we caved & commissioned

a black sesame cocktail to split, to pose with, 

until we remembered that we hate

seeing ourselves in photos. i think

in real life, we are both beautiful. 

when the sun strikes my face, i leave you

in my sleep, where we lived

five stops apart. stuck behind

my southward window, the ants side-step

one another, their antennas flickering

like shadows, mistaking the ceiling for the sky.

Wedding Weekend

—after Frank O’Hara

We don’t know whether today is Friday or 2023, only that this will be our last

drink except on further thought Prohibition will begin

after this weekend and not apply while we’re in Japan, 

not when we’re anywhere

outside this country, no, it will commence the next time

we’re invited to Paso Robles and only take effect at this vineyard with a name

that looks like Yves Saint Laurent

listen, outside with you                      

the wine is enormous, maraschino, full-bodied sky

and I am feeling like a teapot on a cold Sunday just waiting to spill

we live simply like this, machinations of filling and unfilling

as long as the drop hatches of our asses open on time

unload with force and imminence, there will always exist

an exit, something new to pirouette our eyes on

like the days I wake to your morning song

     “Buffet, buffet, only $13.99!”

until we discover that was pre-inflation, no way to price match, but still

we’ll have ice cream before breakfast, stroll until the fog lifts

the parking lot into a pose for photographs, selfie in front of Shalimar

buffet until we must nap, until we must dress into something nice

at the gathering we survey the tables, select the most optimal

(the darkest and most proximal to the banquet) 

the furthest from the flavors of guests we will never be, 

the crypto boys and boys with their assets, their artificial

intelligence, and I wade in the cherry sprinkled by your clicking leather heels

marvel at the way you beat the line, return with towering plates that you display 

with dignity like a collection of Fabergé eggs, swipe them without hesitation 

into Ziploc bags, plastic piggy banks full of investments 

we will crack open

on the sky ride to Tokyo, releasing coins 

of kimchi and spicy corn fingers, where thirty rows away from one another, 

we will each hold in our gas or let it out slowly 

(only the hottest girls have IBS)

while overhead our suitcases spin empty and point toward every sign 

tempting at least 50% off

and even in this purgatory my faith lies fullest

in you to breathe gold flakes out of anything.

HONG KONG SUPERMARKET

It is wet when I welcome

the night from 39 

minutes of subways the southwest

corner of Canal St smells like oil

slicked & skidded it is

Tuesday which means black 

trash bags pigment 

sidewalks like bulging

benign moles I trudge

south past the man 

coiling down steel 

shutters his cigarette dangling

from chapped lips I pause 

at the windows of Double

Crispy Bakery the golden orbs

glistening on plastic

platters & I nearly miss 

157 Hester St the unlit 

white on red printed

HONG KONG 

SUPERMARKET 

to be honest my eyes

were searchlighting for red 

& green neon laurels those flickering

letters the centerpiece of California 

plazas but thank God 

the entrance was impossible

to miss that bleached

fluorescence gracing the fractures 

of asphalt finally a fixture

bigger & brighter than the corner

bodegas all named 

DELI & GROCERY in bold

slanted cursive always sold

out of mushrooms their green

onions over $2.60 the freezers full 

of unsealed ice cream finally I step

into the light & the overhead

piano outro sounds like

home sounds like Teresa

Teng on my mother’s 

karaoke machine I pull out

my phone to save the song but I’m 10

seconds too slow for once

I don’t mind 

even with my leaky

nose & burning

throat I feel like I can finally

breathe I’m surrounded

by handwritten signs

hoisted over roiling 

mountains of napa cabbage tumbles 

of tomatoes wider

than the length of my

pinky rows & rows 

of mushrooms king

oyster & enoki & 

shiitake & cloud 

ear & silver ear & black 

wood ear my favorite

a whole aisle devoted to frozen

fish balls imitation fish balls 

live crabs imitation 

crab sticks last Sunday I almost

cried in my local market’s

International Aisle 

pitied by 2 rows of bottles 

branded ASIAN PANTRY 

in a font mildly

calligraphic & another 

2 shelves of cans advertising 

ambiguous curries now I stand 

before 3 aisles of dipping sauces

cooking wines seasoning oils 

crates of LǍO GĀN MĀ 

glasses of spicy

chili oil with fermented

black beans all of the stickered 

Old Godmothers stare back at me with 

a sternness that says

ok

& I know 

I know

at the medicine rack I ask

for LIÙ SHĒN WÁN  

& the herbalist with the blunt

bangs & white button down 

side-eyes me says did you mean

LIÙ SHÉN WÁN & I nod

vigorously yes that’s it that’s what 

I meant even though I really

don’t know I ask for PÍ PÁ GĀO & 

BǍN LÁN GĒN & for good measure grab

a jar crammed with JÚ HUĀ 70 grams

of dried chrysanthemum buds sourced

from Shāndōng my arms 

overflowing with necessities I try 

shoving everything into my backpack 

& my single grocery bag as she watches 

she says just buy a bag it’s only

10 cents how can you leave

looking like that your bag

will break here take it

take it & I stride out 

my arms slinging herbs &

cabbage & glass bottles & strips

of fresh cut pork belly

greeting the night

pink the entire 

ride home

December

Yes, it’s me, your granddaughter.

Remember? His hands released,

words streaming out. Have this, he said,

the CASIO watch sliding off

his wrist. You like writing, right? 

Boxes and boxes of brushes.

I slid it all back, but the time

kept escaping. I wish I knew.

white lilies / trembling

fingers / voices / their fragments

rise /unlocking sky