Red Strike

A poem by Yiqin Liu

The White Bull by José David Morales

Inside the bullet was surprisingly soft white and open. There’s that story about a swan who’s shot by the storekeeper, because the    man is afraid he’ll   break the window again, the   way he did the first   time around. He thought especially that these feathers looked better in that shade of sucked-in red, & yes, I agreed. I agreed—for   this     is during the summer    where we      tried painting our skin     wholly,      tried to      take it in our breaths. Tried that damned trumpet how it sawed off my body how it became a miracle, like the ones in 
a freakshow, but 
for a moment I thought it created me closer to the sky. You know I’m   
                                                               not writing about something easy 
                                               to forget. I just wanted to be born knowing, 
                                               born red.