by Leander He

august closes like a wound. it’s tradition now: makemy parents cry every summer by injecting something new,cover myself with body hair and tattoos so that someoneelse will love me. thrice now i’ve let a strangerset of hands touch and prod my skin(the third time i injected T i bruised my stomachfor a week because i didn’t apply pressure, was stupidenough to let it keep bleeding)until a line snakes down my arm in ink. to placatemy grandfather i tell him it is the river from ourhometown, wash it gently with soap and water. i amsorry i blemish easily. when my cartilage piercing bleeds,cut out with a scalpel knife onto silk pillows in rural chinai think back to when i let hands i loved pick idly, leavingacne scars on my back. crescents dotted where fingernailshad lingered. i never knew what it was like to be untouchedin this new body. now my arm bristles where i laymy cheek, and i am growing through every pore,every crevice craving to be held. i puncture my skinto air out the love that coils underneath, play ship oftheseus with my cells and organs. i dream of the daythey put drains in my chest—the blood and excess,collecting.

Leander He is a queer Chinese writer, studying linguistics at Yale University. What he has to offer includes obscure language facts and the occasional poem; the latter can be found in Couplet Poetry and CORTEX Magazine. He also reads poetry for The Yale Review and Hominum Journal.