Jiang Qing Poem by Victoria Chang

Now the fires are all out. My throat hoarse
and husky. Swallowing pork can blow my head

to pieces, everything too thick for my shrinking
tube, even a sigh, all my breaths are sighs now.
How I used to speak so sleekly in pavilions, even
crows and clouds came down to hear. But now

they blame me for deaths, even for the rain in Venice.
But I think it's the tops of trees that make the first
sound of rain. How I want to lie with you again,
your stubbled face on my neck. How I want to

see the darkened halls of your mind, eyes that
boiled me. How I want to cut down this paper city,
ask you to rebuild it in red, center it. I want to
smear your lips on mine, fasten your thoughts into

my head. Here is a hammer. Here are some nails.
With each new thought, your hand around my neck
still indents itself just so. I can no longer take
my own brain. Soon the wind will inhabit my shadow.