world's tiniest human
BY MURIEL LEUNG
of rosettes and rotting majesty, her throat as slim
as stem and poised to snapping. How she rattles
with each spook. She sneezes and a white feather
coffin sets to drift. Tinker bones on the shattering end.
But glass is glass. Someone made her. Inflated her shy
pouch with cheap pinks. One day loving up a worker bee
and the next, pricked. Death follows her to the milkweed
edge where hand shreds root. Singing all the while
Love me, love me until the sky tips over. Death loves.
When she spills, the forest is coated white and all across
the grass, each one daggers. Someone loses a mirror
and a tooth. Someone dances a spindle song that skips
on record twice. To a Molly fish, a hollow says:
I want to belong to someone, to anyone, but only half a night.
Muriel Leung is from Queens, NY. Her writing can be found or is forthcoming in The Collagist, Fairy Tale Review, Ghost Proposal, Jellyfish Magazine, inter|rupture, and others. She is a recipient of a Kundiman fellowship and is a regular contributor to The Blood-Jet Writing Hour poetry podcast. She is also a poetry reader for Apogee Journal. Currently, she is pursuing her PhD in Creative Writing and Literature at University of Southern California. Her first book Bone Confetti is forthcoming from Noemi Press in October 2016.