Peter Chiu lives and writes in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Lunch Ticket and boats against the current.
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 →
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.