Muriel Leung

Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away  into the far corner between sleep and waking. Always there is a dock, the possibility of splinter. File by file, tall ligaments of ash-light, the fathers move across the wooden slats, careening into water. The bed is a ...

In the impossible, we bring home to roost a discordant feeling—widow buttons in all black still with our funeral rings. My lovers, all buried, twisted in the soil, can never fathom the wing that will bite me back, but you touch me where my grin shines brightest in a noxious ...