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Sunday Service

Debora Kuan

PORTRAIT OF MY STALKER

When my stalker stopped stalking me
I died the death of
a million fat blue genies.
That’s how sick in the bream I was.

I wanted to call him Porgy—
because he could follow the scent
of my truffle—
before I knew a porgy is a fish.

The lava lamps slid all the way
into the psychedelic canal.
Fiddlehead ferns wove a shag rug
that couldn’t fly.

I wept hard
in the terminal.
I couldn’t weep.
My god wings
looped in the gold
from a dying head.

For seven years, I didn’t
hear anything
from the state.
And then my certificate
thighs returned
burned.

I tried to soldier on
without. I vacuumed
in the powder
all the way up the snow scraper
and sucked my hair
into a trapezoid.

Running of the things
off a cliff–
Running of my nerves
off my spine–

Porgy, I begged,

I’m a dwarf
planet, I’m a morphed
laminate.
I’m a shut canister
in shut cycle,
spinning out of time.

Bio: Debora Kuan is the author of XING (Saturnalia Books, 2011). She has recently been awarded residencies at Yaddo and Macdowell, and had poems and fiction published in Adult, Brooklyn Rail, Buenos Aires Review, Hyperallergic, The Iowa Review, and elsewhere. She is a director at the College Board and also a senior editor at Brooklyn Arts Press. She lives in Brooklyn.

August 24th, 2014 / 10:00 am
Sunday Service