Barbie Chang Loves Evites

Victoria Chang

Barbie Chang loves Evites Paperless
     Party Posts that host her

ego patch her holes she puts barrettes
     on her heart so other

people will see her will hear her her
     heart is made of hay is

disturbingly small held in it cage she
     is never late when invited

always ready for mimesis ready to put
     on her costume to

drink mimosas her heart smells like
     moth balls jumps at

every broth bell her heart growls more
     each day she trims it with

a number two it’s messy work missing
     her aorta by a little bit

her heart is always sort of bleeding she is
     always waiting for

invitations once she heard the Circle
     planning a birthday party

for a daughter she stationed herself
     sipped water for days

waiting for the Evite leaving her Kindle
     on as a nightlight it

glowed a blue garden on the ceiling she
     let her guard down it

never made a ringing sound when you
     brush a child’s hair the

mother can also feel the pain she heard
     the ice skating party

was a hit little girls going in figure
     eights their breath

coming out in clouds shaped like
     little white hearts

More by Victoria Chang

OBIT [Memory]

Memory—died August 3, 2015.  The
death was not sudden but slowly over a
decade.  I wonder if, when people die,
they  hear  a  bell.   Or  if  they  taste
something sweet, or if they feel a knife
cutting them in half, dragging through
the flesh like sheet cake.  The caretaker
who witnessed my mother’s death quit. 
She holds the memory and images and
now they are gone.  For the rest of her
life, the memories are hers.  She said
my mother couldn’t breathe, then took
her last breath 20 seconds later.  The
way I have imagined a kiss with many
men I have never kissed.  My memory
of  my  mother’s  death  can’t  be  a
memory but is an imagination, each
time the wind blows, leaves unfurl
a little differently.

Mr. Darcy

Then we are in the back seat of a car kissing
           not the light kind but one where our
    hands are on each other’s cheeks holding
                 each other’s heads as if they will fall

off why does so much love come at the beginning
           then disappear then once again at the moment
      before death why can’t the same kind exist
                  in between in the breaths in the

afternoon in the sitting room in a place of costumes
            little girls dress like princesses one pink one
      blue one yellow they wear plastic heels because
                 they still think they will never fall

Dear P.

Someone will        love you     many will      love

you         many will brother you   some of these

loves will        bother you   some   will      leave you

one might        haunt   you      hunt you in your

sleep        make you       weep the tearless kind of

weep the         kind of weep   that drowns your

organs     slowly    there are little oars  in your body      

little boats   grab onto them and row and        row

someone will tell you      no       but you won’t   know

he is    right until you have   already        wrung your  

own heart dry    your hands dripping knives    until

you have    already   reached your hands into       his       

body and put them through his        heart     love is

the only thing that       is not    an       argument