Victoria Chang

Caretakers — died in 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, one after another. One didn’t show up because her husband was in prison. Most others watched the clock. Time breaks for the living eventually and they can walk out of doors. The handle of time’s door is hot for the dying. What use is a door if you can’t exit? A door that can’t be opened is called a wall. My father is on the other side of the wall. Tomatoes are ripening on the other side. I can see them through the window that also can’t be opened. A window that can’t be opened is just a see-through wall. Sometimes we’re on the inside like a plane. Most of the time, we’re on the outside like doggie day care. I don’t know if the tomatoes are the new form of his language or if they’re simply for eating. I can’t ask him 
because on the other side, there are no words. All I can do is stare at the nameless bursting tomatoes and know they have to be enough.

In the end she just wanted the house and a horse not much more what if  he didn’t own the house or worse not even a horse how do we separate the things from a man the man from the things is a man still the same without his reins here it rains every fifteen minutes it would be foolish to marry a man without an umbrella did Cinderella really love the prince or just the prints on the curtains in the ballroom once I went window- shopping but I didn’t want a window when do you know it’s time to get a new man one who can win more things at the fair I already have four stuffed pandas from the fair I won fair and square is it time to be less square to wear something more revealing in North and South

I once was a child am a child am someone's child not my mother's not my father's the boss gave us special treatment treatment for something special a lollipop or a sticker glitter from the toy box the better we did the better the plastic prize made in China one year everyone got a spinning top one year everyone got a tap on their shoulders one year everyone was fired everyone fired but me one year we all lost our words one year my father lost his words to a stroke a stroke of bad luck stuck his words used to be so worldly his words fired him let him go without notice can they do that can she do that yes she can in this land she can once we sang songs around a piano this land is your land this land is my land in this land someone always owns the land in this land someone who owns the land owns the buildings on the land owns the people in the buildings unless an earthquake sucks the land in like a long noodle

While the man is away telling his wife about the red-corseted woman, the woman waits on the queen-sized bed. You'd expect her quiet in the fist of a copper statue. Half her face, a shade of golden meringue, the other half, the dark of cattails. Her mouth even— too straight, as if she doubted her made decision, the way women do. In her hands, a yellow letter creased, like her hunched back. Her dress limp on a green chair. In front, a man's satchel and briefcase. On a dresser, a hat with a ceylon feather. That is all the artist left us with, knowing we would turn the woman's stone into ours, a thirst for the self in everything—even in the sweet chinks of mandarin.

The boss is sitting at the desk the boss doesn’t look at her the boss is waiting for the black telephone to ring she also waits for a ring from the boss he is waiting for the files from her her blue dress like a reused file folder around her body her hands tight around the files the filing cabinet might eat her might take her hand off the boss might eat her the boss wants her but the boss wants money more just a little bit more the boss always seems to want the money a bit more the boss doesn’t hear there are taxis outside waiting for all the women down on the street across the street a boss prepares for bed another boss above him in apartment X rotates a Q-tip in his ear before sex despite instructions on the box we took my father out of the paper the living will the letters with their little capes will leave the paper who will take care of my children later who will take care of my father the will will take care of no one a piece of paper cannot take care of anyone I cannot take care of everyone on some nights I wake in a panic and can’t tell if I am dead or alive this year I dye my hair so I won’t have to die

Barbie Chang’s tears are the lights of the city that go off on off on the men walking around the city move but Barbie Chang doesn’t she cannot promote herself if she had legs she would stop begging if she had a head she would stop her own wedding but the city has no extra bedding it is not ready yet the maids are still making beds Barbie Chang is still making things up there are always storms long arms drinks with pink umbrellas because they know she is confused like a seahorse light avoids her town on the map B2 C4 she wants to be used she doesn’t want to be with you it is morning again and Barbie Chang is already mourning the men the night men who are always right who never write back she prefers to sleep on her back so she can see the eyes of her attackers in the morning a bed with questions with her depression on each side two small holes from knees