by Jen Schalliol Huang

Appearances deceive. You’d like to think
I sprouted, fresh with dew, unfurled, grew
toward the sun to pink my baby cheeks.
As if I was a thing of grace. As if
I didn’t bite. As if I’d never striped
malnutrition into my enamel
and raised the gumline sharpening my maw.
I teethed on paper ‘til I started fires
in my own dry-boned mouth and then exhaled
flames just like a dragon. Like a myth. But
real. Touch me. I’m not scaled, nor a
figment. I have loved myself to softness,
cauterized and kissed closed every wound
with my own tiger’s tongue. In forgiveness.
Invoking blessings. I am plush with them.

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Jen Schalliol Huang is a disabled poet living pondside in Massachusetts. She received her MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her chapbook, Means of Access, was printed through the Kenyon Review. She reads for [PANK] and has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net. Her work has been featured in Cincinnati Review, Flock, RHINO, The Shore, Sou’wester, Shenandoah, and others. Twitter: @jenschalliol.