Peter Chiu lives and writes in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Lunch Ticket and boats against the current.
You sing these hymnals to escape and yet,they still cut your mouth, a prayer bursting your palms open, communion soon,just words across more bruised mouths, fragile wicks unlearning the flameof these psalms and purging lungs of this decaying light: listen, at the altar,your own dry bones and the husk of a shadow sing.
i am plucking seed & skin from my teeth while she stirs, boiling strands of melon flesh you see, i don’t believe my pohpoh knows when to ladle the simmering fat because the pot overflows and still she hums a song about how she was inside the belly of a mare in a past life, as if she was the… Read more →