Mistaking ground for feet
& what we became: two wolves crawling towards the streetlight shadows of texas, thinking the
concaves hid something we could find. I was starved & you were more desperate than ever,
plastering to walls in an attempt to home yourself within something. Meanwhile, America is
becoming part ghost & we are listening to her fingers, her nails pulling bodies out of her body.
City half bandaged, we are stumbling & afraid.
I cannot unclench my fist from the shape of a bullet.
O promised land
I know we are animals. The neighbourhood fences keep us out. In America’s bared teeth there are
52 stars & I’m clawing each one open to find our names.
Olivia Hu is a poet based in Vancouver, Canada. She has published work in journals such as Glass Poetry Press, Cleaver, Barking Sycamores, Red Paint Hill Press, Cadaverine, Eunoia, After the Pause, Crab Fat Magazine, among others. She is the author of the micro-chapbook Ocean's Children (Platypus Press 2016) , a Best New Poets Nominee (2018), and was recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing awards and the Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest. In addition to writing, she is the Editor-In-Chief of VENUS MAG. You can find her work at oliviahupoet.com