by Victoria Chang
At night your growth rate doubles and each morning I spot
yet another Chang
in the newspaper, staring at me with its dull lamps. I limp up
toward a growing opal. Oracle, is this the way up to the litle office
with orange lights?
Let's not argue this time. For the last time, we argued
Over the arrival
of another Victoria Chang. Changed from Valerie to Victoria
and now my ruin,
for she, a track star, runs faster than a seashore. Shared bunks
were never favored by me,
a has-been-girl or even worse, a not-yet-girl. And don't even mention
faces smashed against the door, Helen Chang, Heather Chang.
And with each new Chang, the shock of the world goes down,
drawn to the next eyeless eel
or the one-legged constellation. The next seven Victoria Changs,
in rows, each a little taller than the last. Their fevered footsteps persist,
fist me into midnights.
Last updated February 19, 2023