What does he mean when he says, don’t come back here no more?
(Every time we get to the same place
Through a separate descent.
We row back and forth.
Our arms strong.
Our oars faithful.)
What does he mean when he throws you,
What does it mean when he disappears
An act of pure witchcraft
Even though you cast no spells
And every horse is a slaughterhouse
And home is a den of thieves
Tell me how the end of Donnie Darko goes. You’ve seen it —
not me, I’ve only seen the beginning where the car
speeds away and the kids are screaming. Tell me if the boy
dies. Tell me if the rabbit not a rabbit is really a demon
and tell me if he convinced the boy to give up his soul. You
see the Faustian metaphor here; you see what
I’m trying to get at. You in your armored car, rattling towards
the exit. You’re in your death throes, now. Every
teenage boy is you throwing in the towel thinking a wound
is a rabbit’s foot — some holy charm to carry.
I get hit by the car; I’m losing a lot of blood. You drive away.
You drive away. You drive away.
Is this morning, is every
morning like this? Or else
every unturned tortoiseshell,
looking for tortoises? Is
every valediction a rose
water cake? Find me a
body who will do it for
free. Find me a body
who will say no. Time
has an uncanny way
of handing you yes’s —
the spookie ookie, the
shit that makes you scream
like you’re living. Did you
ever shake down such
a thing? I can tell you,
I did. I figured it out.
To walk comfortably between
two people without
disturbing the force of
artemis lin is a queer writer and filmmaker currently residing in Los Angeles, CA. She is the editor-in-chief of the critical film journal RABBLEROUSE, and will be or has been published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and loves me | loves me not.